The only thought in my head, as I wait for the final stage of the hiring process to begin, is of this damn chair. It’s too fucking hard. The conspiratorial part of me has to wonder if she didn’t do this on purpose as I peer over the table at her own cushioned seat. Empty; I suppose a named partner has the luxury of making her new candidates wait for as long as they please. She always did run on her own time, even to the detriment of others. I remember being late to school on several occasions because her work took precedence over ‘free lifts’.

So here I am, waiting, in this flat fucking chair I loathe only half as much as the woman responsible for it being here. I’m sitting in a spare meeting room in the offices of Wilson and Volkova LLP. It’s my fifth time setting foot in this building, and if all goes well I’ll end up doubling that number next week. It’s… not my first choice of firms to work for, but all of my applications to more desirable ones were shot down like they hadn’t even looked at my glowing resume. Don’t get me wrong, Wilson and Volkova is a dream position for any of my peers, especially for someone fresh out of law school, but for me it’s the one place I had ruled out entirely from the moment I began my search. I’ve worked hard for my qualifications, independently, and now I’m here taking advantage of my connections to get myself hired. Years of hard work with no financial support from her, only to resort to nepotism in the final hour. My pride is in fucking tatters.

Tap tap tap. Nervous habit takes over. My nails clack against the desk impatiently as I curse myself out under my breath for forgetting to put some eye drops in my purse. That’s not really the reason I’m mad at myself, but a damn good lawyer like me can convince even herself of any convenient new truths needed to keep her from chipping a nail on the fucking desk.

Then, the door behind me swings open. A part of me hopes to see Laura Wilson stride past me and fill that chair across the table, but I’m not so lucky. Instead, I am greeted by the cold presence of the woman who gets to take credit for raising me, when in truth my childhood consisted of weathering a storm I couldn’t get away from until becoming a legal adult. A storm named Sofiya Volkova.

“Too early,” she states candidly, hanging up her coat while I watch in the reflection of the glass ahead of me. I dare not turn around; she doesn’t deserve that much reverence, besides. “Being overly punctual just inconveniences others, dear. You’d do well to learn that much if you insist to work in such a competitive field.” Her voice is as dry as ever, each word coming out like a piece of gravel pelting my ears.

I see she still disapproves of my career choice, which is rich given that I’m only following in her footsteps. Her career is the only thing about this woman I truly admire, yet she shuns me for it. Oh well, it’s not like that’s the only ‘choice’ I’ve made that Mother sees fit to resent me for. I just hope that, despite her hang ups, she actually sees what a good fucking candidate I am. I want her to interview me properly, like we’re strangers; she’s good at talking to me like one usually, when she does so at all.

The woman circles the overly large table with a slow, intimidating gait. She walks like she owns the place, which is half true. Her eyes are like skewers.

“Why are you here, Matryona?” she asks through pursed lips, taking a seat across from me in her lambskin leather blazer that likely costs more than my entire wardrobe.

“That’s…. that’s not my name,” I reply in an exasperated tone, wanting this to be over quickly but needing to make it known I won’t budge on this point. She’s an old fashioned sort who truly believes that children are their parents’ property, and so once she finally understood that I wasn’t going to be her little boy anymore she insisted on renaming me herself. It’s such an outdated, embarrassing name I wouldn’t be caught dead associating with, but I should probably just give up on making this frigid bitch accept reality. “And… I need a job. I’m a suitable candidate so I see no issue with me—”

“No, no. I mean, why are you here? Why drag me out to this empty office and entertain the farce of an interview process? Do you not value my time?” She’s sharper than obsidian; I wouldn’t want to be across from her in a court of law. It’s no wonder she has the reputation that she does, but I won’t be deterred. I won’t…

“I… I worked hard, for years, to get here. I have my pride, Mother.”

The woman nods curtly, assessing me like a surgeon searching out incision points. “Yet, here you are. On my turf. You should’ve just called me directly if you needed another hand out, Matryona. Come, we’ll onboard you in my office. I’ll show you a case we just wrapped up so you can familiarise yourself with our way of handling things here. You’ll start Monday, nine a.m., and leave when I say you’re finished.” She’s already standing up, beckoning for me to follow while I grit my teeth in dissatisfaction at the fact she didn’t even pretend to interview me. It’s like she’s invalidating all of my qualifications, years of school, and boiling down my hiring to exactly what I’d feared this would be. I just hope the office doesn’t talk too much about the nepo hire new to their floor or I think I’ll choke on my tongue.

“You’re feeling smug?” I ask her, petulantly, as I push that insufferably hard chair back under the table and reach for my purse.

“On the contrary,” she returns, not turning to face me as she makes for the door. “I’m just disappointed.”

Even after so much time apart—time that I’ve been more than thankful for after the hell of living under this woman’s roof—the words still manage to brutalise me. My composure, and my confidence, are on the end of her pike-like honesty. I shouldn’t need her approval, I know that, but while she’s my Mother, this woman is also Sofiya Volkova. Her respect in this field is worth more than gold.

We walk in silence.

Sofiya Volkova’s office smells exactly like the home I grew up in. It smells like a gentleman’s bar. The scents of tobacco, anise and polished wood assault me as I pull up a chair to the walnut desk that makes her blazer seem affordable by comparison and hesitate to even lay my hands upon its smooth finish. Everything about this woman is excessive, it’s suffocating.

“You showed up in a suit and tie,” she remarks. She’s taken her seat for only a second and I already feel her jaws around my throat. I nervously adjust my cufflinks and smile professionally, attempting to parry her verbal assault.

“I’m not walking into the offices of Wilson and Volkova in jeans and a hoodie, Mom. Yes, I’m wearing a suit. A tailored one; I have four more at home just like it. What’s your point?” I know what she’s getting at, but I want to hear her say it. I need to taste her hypocrisy first-hand one last time so I can throw it back in her face.

“All that hormone therapy, and you still dress like a man. You’ve had work done on your face, too, don’t think I haven’t noticed. It all seems like a lot of wasted effort if you’re not going to make the most, is all. Not to sound harsh, Matryona, but even in a firm like this with myself and Ms. Wilson as the only named partners… make no mistake, this is a man’s world. It’s their field, and they’ll remind you of it constantly.”

“So will you, apparently.” If she’s trying to get a rise out of me I won’t give her the satisfaction. Still, what a load of horseshit! Her double standards are impressive, really. I’ve never seen a woman so keen on enforcing traditional gender roles while sparing herself the judgement. Like she considers herself exempt from this equation entirely. She was all for me pursuing a career in law before I started HRT.

“I don’t believe myself to be violating the dress code, Mother, so I request we move on. It was a big case, as I understand it?” My lips curl imperceptibly. Triumph. She can’t rightly tell me what to wear so long as I’m following the rules here. I’ll wear my dress shirt and Oxford shoes and my neatly ironed trousers come Monday and she better not have a single thing to say about it. It’s not like I’m going to snitch to HR about Sofiya Volkova, but if I play by the rules I know she’ll feel obliged to let things go. She’s a stickler for order, if nothing else.

My mother bristles. “Drawn out, maybe, but not particularly difficult. Don’t worry, Matryona, I wouldn’t start you on anything complicated.” Her black, sheepskin fingers curl into the document before her and I’m not sure which to focus on more: the traumatic memory of why she covers her hands or the fact that one of the biggest law firms in the world still uses physical documentation. I’ve heard Wilson’s people are paperless, but Sofiya values the security of something you can only see if it’s directly in your hands. Her hands, I remind myself, bear scars from the first and last time I ever directly fought with her. It was, as she put it, the second most rebellious thing I’d ever done to her—after transitioning.

“How kind of you.” It’s my turn to bristle. Every conversation with this woman feels like a sparring match. When I take the document from those conspicuous black hands of hers, I find myself squinting at the paper. My eyes are straining from the dryness caused by my contacts and I wish—more than I care about alleviating the sting—that it were not so fucking obvious.

“Your eyes are red, Matryona. This is what you get for refusing my offer to pay for a surgery that actually mattered.” Mother takes any chance she can get to chide me. I know that working under her is going to be hell, but I’ll endure. If I can somehow manage to earn her recommendation while working here, I’ll more or less have my pick of any firm I want.

“I, yeah… forgot my drops at home,” I mutter passively, staring down at the well organised folder in my hands. This feels more like personal documentation than it does official. It’s no wonder my mother has no social life.

“You mean you left them at home,” Mom corrects me, causing my fingers to grip the folder tight enough that my knuckles begin to whiten. “It’s no matter, you can take it home provided I can trust you to return it exactly as is come Monday morning. Nine a.m., remember? Any earlier and you’ll just be wasting people’s time again.”

I only manage to maintain my composure by staring down at the folder in my hand, for if I made the mistake of lifting my head while she just said all of that I fear I might’ve said something untoward.

“Guess I’ve got homework for this weekend, then.” I finally look up, giving my mother one last confident look before I’m excused.

“It would appear so.” She smiles joylessly. “Feel free to message me if you find any of the details confusing. And… Miss Volkova?”

It feels strange hearing myself addressed by that name in these offices, even if it is mine. “Yes?”

“I look forward to working with you.”

Tch.

Monday morning, nine a.m. sharp. As if to spite my new overbearing superior, I arrive wearing cologne. I enter the building like I own it and I’ll admit to a little smugness, if unearned, at the way everybody on the first floor gives me a wide berth—the way I fluster the receptionist with my presence once again. I ride the elevator alone and only in the privacy of this metal box do I let my nerves show. Mother has a way of making me feel small, like it’s sport for her, so I need to be careful not to let my guard drop even once if I want my first day here to go well. She’ll be looking for any opening, that much is certain.

I’m led to my new office not by Mrs. Volkova, but by the woman I’ll be neighbours with, who appeared to have been waiting by the elevator doors for my arrival. I silently wonder if she’s scared of getting on my mother’s shit list if she failed to escort me properly, and scoff in disapproval at how ingratiating the woman’s company appears to be. Like I’m above them.

“It’s just in here, I hope it’s not too depressing haha. We’ll get our senior associate privileges one day, god willing.” My co-worker, who I understand I’ll be working alongside on the same case team for a good while, stands in the doorway as I place my bag down by my desk. It’s an interior office with no windows. Still, I can’t help but wonder if an open plan wouldn’t be less hassle if we’re going to be tackling cases together anyway. This place is excess incarnate; even the paralegals have their own enclosed offices. At least I’ll have the privacy to work on getting myself hired elsewhere, I suppose.

“It’s great, thanks.” I wave the woman away and close the door, needing a moment to steel myself in case she comes knocking first thing this morning. I still need to return that case folder, anyhow, so I can’t avoid her for very long. After a short-lived moment of decompression, reclining back in a much nicer chair than I’d been given on Friday, I decide to be proactive and drop by her office instead of waiting for her to come to me. Perhaps it’s petty, but I have a good excuse to go disturb her and so I mean to exploit that.

The floor is quiet this morning. I think most people here don’t start until half past, but I’m grateful to have been summoned in earlier so I can get my lay of the land without all the chatter and urgency. I need to take the elevator again; the two named partners and senior leadership get top floor privileges, which makes it sort of feel like you’re paying visit to royalty when you ride up to the top.

Ding! I leave swiftly and carry myself with purpose, not wanting a single person on this floor to see me as some fresh-faced greenhorn. I walk like I belong, heading straight for Sofiya Volkova’s office with a confident stride that tells anyone looking that I’ve a good reason to be knocking on her door. That I know what I’m fucking doing.

“Come in,” she returns, sounding like she has been expecting me. Of course she has. When I enter the room, I catch sight of her scalded hands—the only significant impact I ever made on this woman’s life—before she covers them in creaking black.

“Good morning,” I start, knowing that she has no love for pleasantries, “I’ve been shown to my office, and I’ve come to return your folder. Interesting case, but like you said, more drawn out than particularly difficult. I don’t think I’ll have a problem getting situated.” There’s a long pause after I’m done talking, in which my mother gazes at me like a predator staring down their prey. It’s a little unsettling, but I’m more than used to being on the receiving end of her wolfish gaze. It’s the most emotion she’s prone to showing.

“I see you’ve chosen to dress like a butch lesbian again, Matryona.” The words are spoken bitterly, but sincerely. She commits a blatant HR violation like it’s little more than Monday morning small talk. I divert my gaze, face heating up indignantly. My eyes fall upon the set of Russian nesting dolls sitting on the shelf behind her. I always hated those things, they’re creepy.

“I-Isn’t that a little rich?” I take the bait, unable to help myself. I won’t let her talk to me like that when it’s not like she’s in a skirt and heels herself.

The woman chuckles, which throws my composure out of the window; this office has windows, I note. “I dress according to my status, girl. I wear power.” Mother’s grin is intimidating even just in my periphery. It seems I’ve amused her by making the comparison between our outfits. “You wear a costume.”

I can’t pretend to parse her backwards logic, so I decide to ignore her. She’ll just have to suck it up and find a way to cope with my decisions as a grown adult. I place my bag down on her inordinately expensive desk and remove the folder, placing it down without giving her the satisfaction of a verbal rebuttal to her nonsense. We’re not in court.

“There. Now, I have work to start and colleagues to meet, so if that’s all, am I excused?” I finally say, returning her icy tone with direct eye contact that looks right through her attempts to unnerve me. I can do it too, Sofiya. Like mother, like daughter.

“You’re excused.” Her smugness has dropped, and I take it for myself greedily. Wantonly. Like there aren’t going to be consequences for getting one over on a woman this prideful and vindictive.

I smile pleasantly, nod, and then remove myself from the room. It feels good to deny that woman’s satisfaction. Better than sex, maybe, but even thinking that has me considering scheduling therapy again. My mommy issues have gotten out of hand.

“Oh, Volkova!” I’m greeted with a much livelier floor than the one I’d left only ten minutes ago, and my smile turns a little wry at the use of my surname. They just can’t help themselves. “C’mere, let’s get a good look at you.”

I subject myself to the social ritual with a friendly demeanour I don’t think my mother could even fake, shaking hands with and telling each person who comes to size me up how much I’m looking forward to working with them. By the time I’m back in my office I feel exhausted, signing into my desktop and straining at the bright monitor display. I instinctively reach for my bag to apply some lubricating drops to my dry eyes before realising that I don’t have it here. I… fuck. I left my bag in Mom’s office. She’ll be sure to hold that tardiness over me for the rest of the week, at least.

Stubbornness drives me to ignore the discomfort for another hour before I finally accept that I’m going to have to go back up there, to her office, and ask to retrieve my bag. This completely nullifies my ‘victory’ over her from earlier…

Elevator goes up. I’m riding it alone again, thankful for the space. I try not to rub my eyes as the light above me irritates them further. At least I didn’t forget my drops today, even if I’ve temporarily misplaced them in the worst possible company.

Ding! This time, my gait drags. I rush over to Mother’s office as inconspicuously as I possibly can, which isn’t very given whose office it is I flock to. I knock, again, and she calls for me to enter like she was anticipating me. Again.

“I forgot my bag,” I mutter under my breath, entering the stuffy atmosphere of Mrs. Volkova’s private office once again and turning my gaze towards the couch. Right where I left it. I’m so frustrated at myself for such a simple slip up.

“Your eyes are so red again,” Mom remarks, writing something into a leather bound notebook on her desk. It’s been years since I saw her wearing her glasses; she doesn’t like making her own impairments known.

“Yeah. Need my drops.” It’s an inconvenient and disruptive facet of living with sensitive, dry eyes and wearing contact lenses daily, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay to maintain my professional appearance. I suppose, in this way, I’m just like my mother. I drop my knee onto the black leather couch irreverently and dig through my bag, searching for my medicine. I search. And search. And…

“What the fuck?”

“Language, Matryona.” Is she fucking kidding? This is hardly the time.

“Did you go through my bag while I was gone?” I ask her plainly, wondering where the hell my eye drops could have disappeared to. I vividly remember putting them in my bag this morning. Hell, I even set a reminder on my phone.

“Excuse me? Don’t be ridiculous. Did you forget your drops again?” I immediately regret accusing her because I’m just giving her more ammunition. Backing down, I search my bag one last, desperate time before accepting that I must have somehow lost them. Maybe I… got them ready but never actually put them in the bag itself? No, but… I swear that I—

“Look at me, daughter.” My mother commands. I reluctantly obey, glowering through dry eyes and then softening my stare when I see what’s in her hand. Not the same brand, but…

“I picked these up over the weekend to keep in my desk in case you forgot again. I know how clumsy you can be.” There’s obviously a catch. She isn’t so caring. If I accept these it’ll be giving her something else to hold over me, I know that, but at this rate I’ll have to take my contacts out and I still have the rest of the day here ahead of me. I don’t go home until she says so, as I recall.

“That’s… very nice of you.” I circle around her desk and reach out for the bottle, only for my mother to pull it back.

“Aren’t you going to ask nicely?” she teases, making me feel more comfortable than when she had been feigning benevolence. Here she is.

“Oh come on. Please? I need to get on with work.” My eyes trace the bottle in her grip. Did she remove the label? It looks so fancy with that gold trim, making me wonder if the one percent even have their own overpriced eye drops. God, she’s insufferable.

“Back to your job here, yes? A junior associate at my firm destined for a very fast career curve, determined to make something of herself to spite the mother who told her to find a good man to hang off if she was so set on forsaking her career prospects with a needless sex change?” She’s grabbing my wrist roughly with those dark, abyssal digits. I wince in discomfort and glare fiercely. Not at her, but the ground. I can’t face her when she’s like this. Such a fucking monster. She’s always seen my identity as little more than a challenge, since the day I made the mistake of coming out to her while she was still my legal guardian. She gave the chef a day off and told me that if I was so insistent on being a ‘real woman’ that I should learn to cook for her. I was stressed beyond the point of breaking in our kitchen, so overwhelmed by her endless criticism that I went to throw the entire pot of Pelmeni onto the floor in retaliation. If she hadn’t reached out for them instinctively, her hands would’ve been spared.

If I hadn’t reached for those drops she’s lording over me, I would have been spared this humiliating song and dance.

“Please, Mom. Just let go… and give me the damn drops. Or we can forget HR and go straight to the cops, o-okay? Hope you’ve got a damn good defence attorney.”

And just like that, she releases me. Her poker face is second to none, and so I read from it what I want to. I tell myself I’ve returned the abusive bitch to her senses.

“Fine. Here you go.” Mom’s fingers uncurl and she hands me the bottle. I take it without hesitating, feeling like I’ve won somehow despite everything. My eyes sting so fucking much that I decide to apply the drops here and now, though take a few steps away from my awful mother and towards my bag on the couch before doing so. Left eye first, then my right. I blink a few times to lubricate my eyes fully and sigh out in relief.

“Am I excused now, Mother?” Every interaction with this woman is a battle, and I’m feeling more than a little war-torn after that one.

“No, you’re not.” Mother’s stare becomes intense; academic. “Tell me how you’re feeling.” Hah… it’s not like her to care. She sounds so urgent, too.

“I’m not in the mood for a heart to heart, Sofiya.” I make sure to scathe her one last time before reaching for my bag. Except… there’s two of them. I… I only brought one bag to work today, didn’t I? My fingers somehow manage to miss the handle of either one and I stumble forwards. Distantly, I hear the sound of my mother’s chair being pulled out. The sound made by the outsoles of her chelsea boots impacting the oak flooring sounds so distant and muffled even as I find myself wrapped up in her imposing scent; smoky and woody and special.

“I was told it was fast acting. Roughly thirty times faster than typical psychedelics. Still, seeing it in person… it’s fascinating.” What is she even saying? Her voice sounds so far away. I become vaguely aware of Mother lifting up one of my arms, but I’m too confused to react appropriately. I’m staring at my bags… makes no sense. I only brought one. I… they’re so blurry. A soft giggle escapes my bone dry throat before I can catch myself, realising something’s very wrong. My breathing has become so heavy; my body feels so light. When Mom drops my arm back down it falls limply by my side and I almost topple over from the loss of balance. If she didn’t catch me, I would be on the floor right now. Isn’t that strange?

Mom turns me around by my shoulders and gently pushes me down onto the couch. I drop onto the black leather cushions with my head bobbing so violently some of my hair falls in front of my face. I’m too distracted to brush it away, but thankfully Mom does that for me too. I try to thank her, but my voice is slurred beyond coherency. After a moment of trying to collect my thoughts, and letting most of them slip through my fingers like I’m holding water, I stare up at Mom from the couch I’m sinking into and try again.

“Wh-whass gooing onnn?” There’s two of her. Two Sofiyas. The cut-throat attorney and the uncompromising mother. They both stare down at me, their gazes boring down into my skull. They’re both so much more than me. So much to live up to.

“Matryona. Didn’t I teach you to never trust anyone?” they start. One looks down at me with a dispassionate, analytical gaze while the other’s presents a gleeful disdain. My head feels like it’s spinning as my vision only gets worse. Mother retrieves something from her desk while I fail to respond to her question, too busy focusing on how weird my tongue feels in my mouth. How dry my lips are. I push my tongue between them and smile lightly, realising how stupid this must make me look. What’s going on? Why do I feel so dumb all of a sudden? Why am I smiling when I should be screaming?

My moms return with a small flashlight that she shines into my eye after tilting my head back and prying one of my eyes wide open with her forefinger and thumb. I’m almost panting as she does this, my hands balling into fists by my sides as this woman does… something. What’s she doing? My chin feels wet. My neck tickles. I feel so silly right now.

“I drugged you,” Mom states candidly, finally overlapping into a single, towering figure again once I finish blinking away that bright light. I feel scared, but I let out another empty laugh. This is absurd.

“Whaaaat? Uhm… wh-whyy? I… feeelllsofunny.” It’s like my body’s hot and cold all at once. Every nerve tingles and it’s hard to keep my head held up. My mouth is pooling with saliva while it feels like my brain cells are dying off one by one by one.

“I had to do something, girl. You disobey me every chance you get. You bring shame to me like it’s your calling. I couldn’t let it continue, so I’ve taken measures into my own hands. Extreme measures, some would say, but you left me no choice.” Her voice is so scary. I shrink into the couch as the shapes dance across my vision, saving me from the full picture. I’m drooling onto my dress shirt, I can feel the wet patch on my chest. It’s… getting so hard to think like… like I normally do. She’s so scary.

“Mommm I’m scared.” I’m chewing my lip, falling even deeper into the cushions at my back like I’ve been drugged. Did… wait, did she say she drugged me? I… can’t remember. Maybe I made that up. Maybe? I… forgot what she was saying. My hair is spread out behind me in a mess and my legs are splayed out similarly in front of me. I can’t ball my fists anymore, I’m too relaxed. It’s strange to feel so panicked and yet, at the exact same time, like I’m melting. I’m just soft butter sitting in the sun. She’s radiant; her hands reach down like rays, set to liquefy me completely.

“I’ve got you, Matryona.” Despite the comforting words, her tone is dreadfully mocking. Black fingers dig painfully into my shoulders and yet I lean into them like they’re the only thing still tethering me to the room. I need her touch, her grip, or I’ll disappear into my dreams.

“Did… you drug me?” I ask, slightly more lucid even as I can feel my thoughts spilling out onto that wet patch of shirt above my tits. Isn’t drugging people illegal? What am I saying, of course it is. It’s against the law…

“That’s right, pretty. I had to pull some strings to procure this, just for you. It cost a great deal to have it prepared in liquid form. Medication taken through the eyes bypass many of the body’s natural defences, which can pose a risk, but I thought it one worth taking in this instance. I want you to know, while you’re yet lucid enough to understand, that I tried to teach you your place with gentler methods before this. You have your own stubbornness to blame. I’ll accept you as my daughter, what’s done is done, but I won’t tolerate the woman you’ve become.”

I sulk a little as my mind slowly registers her words. I feel so naked, exposed, like she can lay her hands all over me and I’d have no way of stopping her. I feel completely at her mercy again, like I had in early childhood, and it makes talking back to her seem… dangerous. I keep blinking, but my vision isn’t getting any better. There aren’t two Sofiya’s anymore, but one abstract shape that my ailing mind has to fill in the gaps for. The traitorous deference being forced onto me by that intimidating, impossibly headstrong voice decides to paint the picture of an infallible goddess where my abusive mother should stand. It makes accepting this loss just a little easier. Like this is just divine intervention. This is somehow just.

“You’re so pale, and covered in spit, but at least your eyes aren’t red anymore. You’re not being so stubborn either, which is good. Children should listen to their parents. A good daughter obeys.” The fingers in my hair tilt my head up harshly, and I gasp dreamily against the painful touch. Why do I sound so… “Say it, so that I know you understand and agree.”

Say what? Oh… oh. I… I’m so confused. Where am I, again? I should… should just do what she says or she’ll get mad at me. Right?

“A… a good d-daughter… obeys?” I can’t stop licking my lips. Everywhere’s so wet.

“Good. This product was initially intended to go to market as a one stop solution wonderdrug for boosting one’s self-confidence, haha… well, it didn’t quite work as intended, but the effects are still there. It can still be considered self actualisation, what I’m using it for. The idea was for the drug to reinforce those mirror mantras people do to convince themselves they’re worth more than they really are. Of course, it wouldn’t take without introducing a strong hallucinogenic that would never be approved for commercial use. Then came the other side effect…”

Mom drugged me? I lost track of what was going on again. God, I… my head feels so empty. I need to focus better. I need to be a better listener. I’m going to let her down again… I’m going to get in trouble.

“Side… affect?” I tilt my head to the side, pursing my lips. She drugged me, I’m sure of it. She drugged me. What’s going on?

Mom’s fingertip presses against my forehead, causing me to pout. It’s kinda cold… “Mental impairment, irreversible. To put it bluntly, the drug causes some… minor brain damage. They were stupid enough to test it on a human subject after inconclusive animal testing. I only got my hands on this because I won’t hesitate to blackmail a close friend of thirty years to get what I want and keep their failure away from prying eyes. You know what they say, daughter: one man’s junk is another’s treasure.” Brain… damage? That’s really serious. That’s scary. I… I need to snap out of this and… call an ambulance. “Come.”

Before I can think to reach into my pocket for my phone and dial an emergency number, Mom’s fingers pull me up onto my feet, using my hair like a leash to drag me around. I whine and gasp and pant, but I’m too busy focusing on maintaining my balance to actually fight her control. It feels like her guidance is the only thing keeping me conscious, as awful as she is. I’m such a pushover…

Mom leads me to the wall mirror in the corner of the room, beside the shelf on which her creepy Russian dolls sit. I glance them shyly, and they return my gaze with a look of smug foreboding. The mirror depicts insanity. My pupils are so wide, my hair is a bunched up mess bound by creaking leather touch, and my face is pale and wet. The worst part, though, is my expression. I look like an idiot. I’m literally smart, though… I’m a qualified attorney. Passing the bar is fucking hell, and I did it. Except, I’m not sure that I’d be able to focus if I took it again.

In an act of sheer desperation, I try to remember the basics. There’s a uhm… a courtroom, and lawsuits… women in suits. Uh, men too, I guess. Men and women, and a judge. And they… god, my head… they have hearings. And counsel… and arbitration. Whatever that is. God, I don’t know what that is. There’s so much law, spilling out of me. She took it… Mom drugged me and stole my intelligence, and now she intends to refill the hole it left behind with deference. Obedience. Like I’m just her toy to manipulate, with no autonomy of my own. I wet my stupid drooling lips again and try to stand up straight.

“Where did that confident posture disappear to, Matryona? You look even more ridiculous in these clothes than you did when you walked in today. Here.” Fingers leave my hair and help me out of my suit jacket. I try and fail not to feel grateful; it got so hot in here! “Repeat the words from before,” she commands. As all good daughters should, I obey.

“A good daughter uhm… obeys.” It’s like I’m trying to convince the girl in the reflection. Don’t you see, Matryona? All of this is okay. My heart is pounding so fast, and I vaguely recall her mentioning something about this drug reinforcing whatever I tell myself. That’s… fine. I’m so dazed right now I’ll hang onto any semblance of direction I’m given. Obeying Mom is an olive branch right now, even if there’s a quiet little voice in the back of my head—barely louder than a whisper now—telling me to fight her. To call the police. But then I remember…

“A good daughter obeys.” While I speak to myself, convince myself, Mom undoes the top few buttons of my dress shirt. I feel so much more comfortable now, even if the top of my bra is showing. It’s… kind of a look.

“A good daughter obeys.” Repeating the sentence is like hammering a nail into my skull, pinning the words to my brain as a new truth. Doctrine. I’m helping her lobotomise me while leaning back against her like a pillar. I’d fall without her. I’m grateful… I’m obeying… I’m… dizzy.

“Mmgh… a guhh… guhh? Uhm…” Panic seizes me and I throw my head up, staring at Mother like a lost lamb.

“As I said, dear… there will be some loss of mental function. It’s nothing so terrible. A little cognitive decline, affecting your learning ability, concentration and attention span. The last subject also suffered from heavy aphasia, which is why I’m speaking much slower in the hope you’ll be able to understand me. As best you can, anyway.” She slowed down? I didn’t even notice… it feels like everything else slowed down, too. Why would my own mother do this to me? I knew she was possessive, but… uhm… what was I just…

A good daughter obeys. I can’t manage to coordinate my speech, so I repeat it in my head, staring into the mirror’s eyes dutifully. I… never obeyed her before. I rebelled, didn’t I? Did… did that make me a bad daughter? Am I a bad daughter?

“I can’t fathom it,” Mom speaks into my ear, low and warm. Her breath tickles; my mind buckles. “Someone born into the more privileged of the two sexes deciding to throw that advantage away. It makes me want to make an example of you, since teaching you a lesson is no longer feasible. It hasn’t been for a very long time; I’ve always wondered where I went wrong with you, but I’m done trying. You insisted upon joining me in womanhood and even sought to ape my career as well. Imitating me mattered more to you than gaining my approval, evidently, and so I’ve decided—at long last—what to do with you. Let’s compromise.”

She’s saying so many words. I just nod along, pretending to understand. A good daughter listens. I want to protest, but I can’t. I’m at fault here… if I hadn’t forgotten my drops at home…

“You’re a woman, aren’t you?” she asks simply. I answer her with a thin little smile, forgetting that I should be upset with her about something. Whatever it is can wait, I need to tell Mom I’m a woman.

“Mmhm…” I let out a high pitched affirmation in place of a proper verbal response. When I see that she’s not going to tell me off for how I reply, I let out something between a sigh and a giggle and squeeze my tongue between my lips happily. I’m a woman.

“No. You’re just a girl,” Mom corrects me. Oh, okay. I’m just a girl. That’s… basically the same thing. I nod docilely, starting to get used to this passive dullard in the mirror’s reflection. I wasn’t like this until a few minutes ago, but she’s already overwriting the woman who walked into this office. I’m not a woman, just a girl. I mean, just look at me. A woman is independent, where I’m the ditz who forgot her eye drops and needed Mommy to take care of me. The room stopped spinning the moment I entered her hold.

“I need to show you how to present like a girl. How to act like one. I’ll be the mother you claim I never was, alright? I’ll take good care.” Her words are dripping with kindness I lap up like a stray, letting them seep into my brain like it’s a sponge. All those holes her drug made filling back up until I’m whole again. Till I’m a good girl.

“Mm.”

“You came into work dressed like a man today, you silly girl. You look ridiculous dressing like this in the body that you have.” One of her strong hands cups my breast from behind and lifts it, causing me to groan against the touch absent-mindedly. What… what was I thinking, wearing these clothes? I… I had thought that… that… “Let me show you, daughter. I wonder if a visual metaphor might make more of an impression on you than all these big, complicated words.” I get the vague impression that she’s talking down to me, but again, I’m grateful. She’s right, after all; her sentences are getting hard to follow.

I’m turned by my shoulders to look upon the shelf I had scorned earlier. Those dolls, sitting in sequential order from largest to smallest, arrest my vision. Matryoshka. The name was derived from… from my name. I mean, my name is—

“Matryona. Look.” I can’t disobey her. A good daughter would never. I look at the dolls on the shelf and swallow some of the saliva pooling in my mouth. “There’s me,” Mom points at the largest of the dolls; the only one that has no larger counterpart to nest inside of, “and here’s you.” Her finger moves across the row of hand painted wooden dolls to the smallest piece in the sequence; the only one with no smaller counterpart. I swallow again. I’m the smallest, and she’s the biggest.

“Oh,” I mutter dumbly, giving the woman a sluggish nod that tells her I understand. Sort of. I can tell she’s not so sure, that she questions my waning intellect, because she continues to spell it out for me like I’m a little kid.

“You can never be more than me, Matryona, because you fit snug inside of me. Just a miniature imitation of the real thing. The ‘little mother’.”

I’m struggling. I think she may have drugged me. God, my head is so…

“You can hold onto this, daughter.” Mom takes the smallest doll—the one she said was me—and stuffs it into the breast pocket of my shirt. Then, she lifts my arms up into the air. I really am like a doll, because I let her manipulate my body without a second thought. It’s just the right thing to do, I think. To remain docile until I’m called upon… though, it might be a different story if she were not giving me so much attention. I feel like I’m getting fat on it.

“These, we can seal away. Along with all they represent. You gave up being a man, didn’t you? You’re just a girl, so let’s find more appropriate accessories for you to wear than these. Perhaps a nice round pair of glasses and some expensive jewellery you know you could never afford to buy for yourself. Accessorized by your successful mother and her high-paying job, no longer having to worry about personal preferences or budget.”

Why do her words hit so hard? They’re painful, but only at first. Once I’ve absorbed them fully, they no longer seem so bad. It’s like drinking spirit, it only burns on the way down. “Mm.” My affirmation is directionless, because she’s being kind of confusing again. I just agree. I like agreeing, because she smiles and strokes my hair and takes away the things that hurt me.

“That’s one,” she states, more to herself than me. I am ornate. The cuff link sitting in her palm meant a lot to me, once upon a time. It was a woman’s rebellion. The second comes off even easier than the first, and then they disappear into the rightmost nesting doll. She’s traded the small wooden effigy burning a hole into my chest—immolating my pride—with the symbol of my stubborn resistance. The silver pair is obscured entirely by its new wooden enclosure, and then again, and again, and again until only one Matryoshka is yet visible. Until only Mother remains. She’s engulfed all of it, and none can escape her. I’m so relieved.

“I’ll buy you some more appropriate work clothes for tomorrow.” The backs of her cold fingers slide down my overheating cheek. I lean into them without a care in the world, because I’m too confused to remember that I hate her. All those long years of resentment have been locked away inside of the nesting doll. I am hers now. A good daughter who obeys without question.

“Aahh…” I chirp. She seems pleased by my cognitive dysfunction, like no loving mother could be. And yet, I feel drenched in her affection. I’m stained by it, irreparably. I’m scarred. I’m just a girl, eaten whole by the big bad wolf.

“I’m so glad for this, Matryona. Now, come. Let’s get you familiar with your new job description here at Wilson and Volkova.” As Mother guides me away from the wall, I stumble like a drunkard. I hold onto her arm tightly, curling fingers into her suit in nothing but a buttoned down dress shirt and feeling like the wooden doll.

I disappear into her.

Monday morning, 9:32 a.m. I am sitting on somebody’s desk, covering my face with my hands. It’s so embarrassing.

“See, I told you? Tranny.” One of the junior associates says to the other, sounding smug for having proved her colleague wrong. “You can close your legs now, Mottie.” I clamp my legs shut atop the woman’s desk and grip the front of my skirt, pushing it down. Guhh… so embarrassing…

Still, I can’t help but smile a little at my office pet-name. After spending some time with Mommy last week, I had to meet the team a second time. I wasn’t to be working with them anymore, as Sofiya Volkova’s paralegal, but it’s important I get along with everyone. They asked my name and I wrote it down for them. Matryona became the diminutive, Motya, and then by the end of the week it was Mottie. I like it. It makes me sound like I’m their mascot. It makes me feel cute…

“We shouldn’t keep you any longer or we’ll get an earful from Mrs. Volkova,” one of them says, before adding, with a knowing grin, “I’m still surprised she even needs a paralegal, that woman works more than my vibrator.”

Ugh, they’re being rude again. It’s true, though. I don’t really do any work here, not directly. I’m like… a trophy. I’m like the dolls on Mom’s shelf. I serve a purpose, even on this floor… I provide morale. A tiny, irritating voice in the back of my head tells me that paralegals are legal assistants not qualified to fully practice law by themselves, that Mom giving me that job title is insulting to someone who passed the bar exam. That voice is stupid; I don’t even know how to do whatever it is a legal assistant is meant to do. I sit and look pretty and bury my heart under a mountain of shame for Mom. It’s easier than trying, and failing, to do anything more. To be anything more. I’m just a girl!

I’m sent away with a playful smack against my butt that almost makes me lose my footing. Gosh, even after a week these shoes are so hard to walk in… the 11 centimetre heel makes me feel like I’m strutting around on my tippy toes…

The elevator mirror unveils me. This is the only time of the day I take a proper look at myself. The girl in the reflection is a week old now, doing her best to smile through the panic. I’m always calm, even when I don’t feel it, so the mirror reflects that. I look so pretty, even when I don’t feel it, and so the mirror makes me sparkle. I look like such a slut compared to the woman I had been until Mom fixed me. That, I do feel. Always. My hair is bleached blonde; my lips are a pale pink; my outfit is office appropriate on paper, but the way I wear it… the way She has me wear it, blurs the line. Black lace peers out from the deep cut of my blouse, which itself is almost transparent in the right light. The thin white material is tucked into a tight pencil skirt that gives way to stockings that end with heels that make my legs tremble like a newborn deer’s. It’s fitting, I suppose, because I fawn over Mom every moment I get in her overpowering presence. My glassy stare into the mirror undressing me is hidden behind glasses even thicker than I am. I don’t wear my contacts anymore, which is nice. It’s far less irritating for my dry eyes, and I get to look cute too. These are jewel encrusted spectacles Mom bought for me. I’ve never seen something look so tacky and expensive at the same time. They’re perfect. I’m… perfect. Exactly how I should be, as the smallest in the row…

The elevator fills up. Senior executives box me into the corner and make me clam up. I feel so shy, hoping they don’t notice me. At the same time, I crave attention so very badly. I’m just like my glasses: a perfect paradox. The contradiction has me unsure whether to feel nervous or relieved when the four heads in the box turn in my direction. Their gazes are exciting. I’m serving my purpose. Mom said that the offices see me like a sort of pet, which she followed with a laugh. I think it was meant to be degrading, but…

My teeth sink into my lip and I lower my head, turning around quickly and resting my back against the mirror that laid me bare. Now, it’s my turn. I’ll be their reflection. Every secret desire, every naughty feeling, made manifest right before their eyes. I’ll make ‘look but don’t touch’ a game of chicken for them. Who on the top floor has the mettle to mess with the boss’s daughter behind Mrs. Volkova’s back?

“Grace?”

Oh. That’s Aunt Laura’s voice… I was too busy staring down at their shoes, comparing heel sizes, to notice. She’s been away, overseas. This must be her first week back since… since I became company property. It’s not her fault she’s gotten my name wrong, then.

“Heading to Sofiya’s office too?” she asks stoically, not mentioning my… everything. I nod, turning my face to the side. What’s this feeling?

Ding! For the first time since becoming Mottie, I escape the elevator ride to the top floor without having a single finger laid on me. Laura Wilson, named partner, offers me her hand. I take it meekly, and that feeling from before flares up again. I’m so ashamed. It’ll be okay… we’re almost there. Once we reach Mom’s office, I’ll be able to relax again.

One of the two women whose name decorates the outside of this building leads me to Mom’s room. Her hand is soft, but the stern look she had given me was anything but. Am I in trouble?

Knock, knock. Without even waiting for Mom’s response, Mrs. Wilson lets herself inside of the office and brings me with her. I’m squirming with discomfort for not waiting, but Mom doesn’t look all too upset. She pulls her chair out and gives me an expectant look. My thoughts slow. The moment Aunt Laura lets go of my hand, I circle around the room with my shaky walk and drop myself into Mommy’s lap quickly. I sink back into her, shamefully, while her creaking fingers wander.

“Ah, Laura. Is there something I can help you with this morning? You didn’t get me a souvenir from vacation, did you? You know I hate that sort of thing.” Mom’s touch violates me subtly. A small press against my belly and I feel like I’m in a chokehold.

“Cigar. You’re welcome. I’d tell you not to smoke it in our building, but you’re clearly going to act as you please in here regardless of whether I approve or not.” Aunt Laura gestures to myself as she says that, pursing her lips disdainfully. “Is this why you sabotaged all of her applications to the other local firms? I used to sit for her. You’re a monster, Sofiya.” The woman places her hands into the pockets of her pantsuit jacket, turning away from me as though to say “I don’t approve of this, but what’s done is done.” I’m so jealous of her natural blonde hair.

“I thought you’d be elated. We’re evenly matched now, as any good partners should be. We both have enough dirt on the other to enforce mutually assured destruction. My payment for the cigar, I suppose.” Mom chuckles, and the low, throaty sound goes right through me. It’s destructive, her chuckle, and I’m obsessed with it. While the two, put-together business ladies talk, I feel like whining. I’m not getting enough attention. They’re talking about a case they’re currently working, big enough to have both partners collaborating for once; big enough to end Aunt Laura’s vacation prematurely. I try my best to follow along, since I’m so bored, but my eye drops really mystified these concepts I’d previously felt so confident discussing. Their legal jargon is like a second language to a girl like me. That voice in the back of my head—the irritating one that I try not to listen to—begs me to involve myself in the discussion. It’s such a big case, says the voice, one that could set an attorney’s career on an upward trajectory for life! I remind the voice that I’m just a paralegal now, and even then in name only. Mom drugged me, remember? If I listen in, I get jealous. I convince myself I’ve got a clue what they’re talking about. That voice in my head is a snake, whispering lies. Still, I listen in; I humour the seductive possibility that I could actually try to understand again.

Interim proceedings. Okay. That’s the middle one. I think. And… allegations. That’s when someone’s telling someone off. I think. And… and… now they’re talking about the viability of an out of court settlement in this instance… that’s. Well, that’s a lot of words, and they’re talking so fast. I’m getting wound up now, because the voice in my head is frustrated with me for being so slow. Out of court settlement. Everyone shakes hands and goes home. Can we talk about something else now, like me? Mom notices my restlessness and chuckles again, low and smug, directly into my ear. I whimper, and the voice in my head slithers back into hiding.

Eventually, Aunt Laura leaves the office, and I get the impression that—while initially reluctant—she agreed to let things continue the way they have been this past week. Mom removes my glasses and places them on her desk, before copping a feel just to see if I’m paying attention. God, that’s so wrong…

“Mommm…” I groan, leaning back against her and throwing my head back to stare at her. I’m not very verbal these days, but this is one word I can speak with my full chest.

“Yes, daughter?” Her smirk tells me that she’s only ever humouring me when we talk like this. I’m not really a person, let alone an employee. I’m her daughter. I’m property.

“Aah…” I mouth the words, and that nagging voice in my head roars like a lion. A shame, then, that it has lost its pride. The part of me that wants for respect, for dignity—that yearns for a career on the level of Sofiya Volkova’s, for independence… for romance… is put to bed by the next five words that come out of our mother’s mouth. It’s like being softly kissed by the point of a blade. Those words, insincere as they must surely be, are enough to convince a mentally addled, stupid blonde girl like me that they’re real. A girl who needs her mother’s approval because she knows everyone else either pities her, wants to rape her, or both. She’s the office pet—the office pig—and she eats out of the palm of Mommy’s hand like it’s her trough. These five words, then, are her feed. They’re rich, and hearty, and she’ll never go hungry again. I’ll never want for more. The small, hand painted doll hanging from the silver chain around my neck tells me exactly what I am: nesting. And within five wooden words, I am confined.

“I love you too, Matryona.”