Allan loved his camping trips. They were the only time he felt truly alone—no work deadlines, no chores, no noise from the kids, no arguments about who was supposed to do what. Just the fire, the trees, and a cooler full of beer. By the time the stars came out, one beer had become several. His thoughts soured, drifting toward home. “Must be nice,” he muttered, “sitting around all day. I swear, I’d have an easier life as a woman.” He pictured his wife on the sofa while he worked himself to exhaustion. Conveniently, he pictured neither the washing piled beside her nor the child who had finally fallen asleep against her shoulder. “Go on, then.” He raised his can towards the sky. “Put me in her shoes. Bet I’d handle it better.” Something shimmered between the trees. A tiny fairy hovered behind him, her wings glowing like candlelight. “Oh, Allan,” she murmured. “You have absolutely no idea.” She lifted her wand. The last thing he heard before the forest flashed white was a soft, delighted laugh. Allan woke tangled in his sleeping bag. His T-shirt hung strangely around his shoulders. Something unfamiliar shifted against his chest when he sat up. He looked down. Then he looked again. “No.” His voice came out higher and softer. Scrambling free, he found his trousers no longer fastened. His waist had narrowed, his hips had broadened, and long hair kept falling across his face. He stumbled towards the little camping mirror. A woman stared back. Her face bore traces of him—the same eyes, the same crease between her eyebrows—but everything else had changed. “Good morning, Allie!” The fairy sat cross-legged on a log. Allan spun round, nearly losing his balance. “What have you done?” “Granted your wish.” “I was drunk!” “Yes. Your argument wasn’t particularly impressive sober, either.” He stared at her. She hopped into the air and gave a tiny bow. “Lira. Love fairy.” “A love fairy?” “Marriages, affection, difficult conversations. Occasionally flowers.” She glanced at his unfastened trousers. “Today, practical education.” “Change me back.” “After three tasks.” “What tasks?” Lira’s smile softened. “First, you’ll learn to notice.” She tapped her wand against his forehead. The campsite vanished. A baby was crying. Allan woke in a bed beneath unfamiliar blankets, wearing a loose nightdress. Across the room stood a cot. Beside him, a man stirred. “I’ll change her,” the man murmured. “Then I’ll bring her over.” Allan sat rigidly upright. Lira appeared on the bedside table. “For seven days,” she whispered, “you’re Allie: a new mum, a wife, and a person who would very much like some uninterrupted sleep.” “Whose life have you put me in?” “A little household made by magic. Nobody’s been displaced, and nobody’s waiting helplessly for their body back.” The baby’s crying grew louder. “But she still needs you.” The man returned with the baby nestled against his shoulder. “Think she’s hungry.” Allan looked helplessly at Lira. “I don’t know how.” “For once,” she said gently, “you can begin by admitting that.” With patient guidance, pillows, and several awkward attempts, he settled the baby against him to feed. It was strange and uncomfortable at first. His shoulders ached from holding himself too stiffly. Then a tiny hand closed around his finger. For a moment, he forgot to be frightened. By morning, he had been awake four times. He began the first day with a plan. Feed the baby. Have breakfast. Put the washing on. Make the bed. Wash up. Simple. By eleven, his tea was cold, he had eaten half a slice of toast, and the washing remained in a damp heap inside the machine. Every time he started something, the baby needed feeding, changing, comforting, or simply holding. At lunchtime, she fell asleep. “Sleep when the baby sleeps,” Allan muttered. He looked at the dishes. Then at the laundry. Then at the bed. He lay down. Six minutes later, the doorbell rang. Lira appeared above the pillow. “How’s your day off?” He buried his face in it. “Don’t.” Shopping required a bag that seemed to contain enough supplies for an expedition. He checked the nappies, wipes, spare clothes, blanket, and shopping list. Then the baby needed changing before they had even left. At the supermarket, she began crying halfway down the second aisle. Allan rocked the pram while comparing prices and trying to remember whether they needed washing powder. A woman passing with a basket gave him a sympathetic smile. “First one?” “Is it that obvious?” “Only because you look as though you’re sitting an exam.” He laughed despite himself. Back home, putting the shopping away took nearly an hour. That evening, his husband cooked while Allan fed the baby. Afterwards, they swapped: Allan washed up while the man walked the floor with her against his shoulder. They were both tired. There was no villain in the room. There was simply more work than either of them could finish alone. Allan thought about home. How often had he walked past a full washing basket because his wife was “already dealing with it”? How often had he asked what was for dinner without asking how her day had been? On the fifth evening, he burned the potatoes. The baby was crying. The washing machine had stopped mid-cycle. He had a headache, his nightdress was stained, and someone had asked whether there were any clean towels. Allan sat at the kitchen table and began to cry. Lira landed beside the salt cellar. “Task two,” she said quietly. “Tell the truth.” “I can’t do all this.” “You don’t have to.” “I feel as though I should be able to.” “Why?” He opened his mouth. Because it was only housework. Because he was at home all day. Because— He stopped. “Oh.” Lira waited. “I say those things to her.” The baby quietened in the next room as her father lifted her. Allan wiped his face. “I come home tired, and I act as though that means she can’t be tired too.” “What else?” “I don’t take responsibility around the house. I wait for her to ask. Then I get annoyed because she’s asking.” His voice shook. “And I don’t listen. I hear a complaint and start defending myself before she’s finished speaking.” Lira rested her tiny hand against his finger. “What do you need tonight, Allan?” He stared towards the doorway. Then he called, “Could you take over for a while? I’m overwhelmed.” His husband appeared with the baby against his shoulder. “Of course. Go and rest. We’ll manage.” Allan cried a little harder. By the seventh day, he had learned to recognise the baby’s sleepy fussing. He could change a nappy without feeling as though he needed another pair of hands. He also understood how much remained unfinished despite a day spent constantly doing things. That afternoon, he sat with the baby asleep against his chest. Lira hovered nearby. “What’s the third task?” he asked. “That happens at home.” He looked up. “You’re sending me back?” “If that’s what you want. You can stay as Allie, or return to your own body and your family.” “Would staying make this an easier life?” Lira raised an eyebrow. He smiled tiredly. “No. I suppose I’ve answered that.” He stroked the baby’s tiny hand. “Being a woman doesn’t make this work mine alone. Being a man never made it hers alone, either.” “No,” Lira said. “I want to go home. I miss my wife.” “What will you do when you get there?” He thought before answering. “Listen to her. And when the washing needs doing, do it.” Lira smiled. “That’s a promising start.” Allan woke beside the remains of his campfire. His own hands lay on the sleeping bag. His own voice cracked when he said his wife’s name. Lira sat on the cooler. “Did any of it happen?” “All seven days. Though only one night passed here.” He began packing. At the edge of the clearing, he stopped. “You didn’t just happen to hear me, did you?” Lira’s playful expression faded. “No.” “Who sent you?” “She didn’t knowingly call for a fairy, Allan. But a few nights ago, your wife sat alone in the kitchen and wished you understood.” He lowered his eyes. “She’d begun wondering whether she could keep living like that,” Lira continued. “Loving someone and feeling alone beside them is exhausting.” “Have you saved my marriage?” “I’ve given you a chance.” His wife was surprised to see him home early. “Everything all right?” Allan put down his bags. “I owe you an apology.” She folded the tea towel in her hands. “For what?” No easy answer was short enough to make him comfortable. So he gave her the honest one. “For acting as though my work counts and yours doesn’t. For leaving you to remember everything. For making you fight to be heard.” She looked at him for a long moment. “What’s brought this on?” He glanced towards the kitchen window. A tiny shimmer vanished beyond the glass. “I finally paid attention.” She sat down. This time, he let her finish when she spoke. Later, they worked out what needed to change. Allan took responsibility for laundry, school lunches, and the children’s bedtime on the evenings he was home. They agreed that she needed time to herself as much as he needed his camping trips. One conversation didn’t settle everything. A week later, tired after work, he almost asked why dinner wasn’t ready. Then he saw his wife helping one child with homework while the other called from upstairs. He washed his hands and opened the fridge. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Making dinner.” She watched him for a moment, then returned to the exercise book with a small smile. Outside, on the windowsill, Lira crossed off the third task on her list, unnoticed. Then she flew away.
