“Pretty butterflies,” the manicurist said as she shook the paint bottle and leaned over his extended fingers.

He glanced down at the tattoo that had been exposed when he rolled up his sleeves. “They’re silk moths,” he corrected patiently. It was something he had to do regularly, though he didn’t mind. He liked talking about them. “I think they’re cute and fuzzy. Honestly they look kind of cuddly, but most people only appreciate them because they make silk.”

Her dark bob of hair bounced as she nodded her head and began the first coat, one smooth swipe at a time. “I guess they should get more recognition for working so hard.”

“And giving their lives,” he agreed.

She paused mid-streak and blinked at him. “Huh?”

“They’re usually boiled alive after they spin their cocoons so the silk can be harvested,” he explained gently as he had many times before.

“That’s horrible,” she shuddered but recovered quickly.

And now his favorite part: “It is, but is anyone going to stop buying silk?”

Her face contorted through the emotions of confusion and disgust, to annoyance, and finally settled on resignation. “I guess not.” She didn’t ask many questions after that; not many people did.

He was here getting his nails done because it was his birthday, and he had decided years ago that men should pretty themselves up more. It made him feel happy. The residual heat from the pedicure relaxed him and allowed him to face what had been so long in coming.

Since before he turned ten, he had spent his days working odd jobs to help his mom pay the bills. She was in and out of jail every six months. The stress and exhaustion of caring for his younger sister as well as himself and his mother had nearly drowned him. Repeatedly. Now more than fifteen years later, it felt good to spend money on himself. Today was a special day, and not just because of the birthday. It was time for him to escape.

His sister had gotten her own place last month, his boyfriend had encouraged him to set a date to do this, and coincidentally his mother had left a message yesterday asking for more money. It was time, but guilt and anxiety still gnawed at him like he was a mulberry leaf.

After paying, he stepped outside into the warm spring sunlight. He took a deep breath, his skin tingling. He didn’t want to do what came next. But he’d told his partner he would. And he’d told his sister he would. And he’d told himself that he would.

He needed to tell her that he was done, and that she didn’t get to use him anymore. He would cut her off on the condition that if she was ever clean for more than 18 months, he’d reconsider. That seemed fair, and after this long, it was time.

He pulled out his phone. His hand trembled, and his chest hurt. He gazed at the tattoo to find the strength for this, where a silk moth crawled free from its cocoon prison. This is just all part of the metamorphosis, he told himself and dialed his mother’s number.

It rang. It rang again. She answered. And he did what so many silk moths had not: he survived.