Pete at 70 year old grandma's house

It was an unusually warm afternoon when young Pete went to his grandma Ida's house. Despite her prickly demeanor and deep-seated dislike for her young grandson, it was Ida who was entrusted to look after the boy during the day. Sure, she was paid for it, but that didn't curtail her bitterness, leading to an uninviting atmosphere between them. On one such day, Pete had been tranquil enough, enjoying his most favorite treats - cookies. Just as he was relishing his snack, Ida came in. With a menacing scowl, she swiped the cookies out of Pete's hand, shocking the four-year-old. Ignoring his tears, she muttered something about sweets ruining his teeth, then left the house for her usual trip to the store. On seeing the door close behind her, Pete acted on impulse. He stealthily sneaked into her room, his eyes fixed on the enticing cookies now tucked away in her closet amongst large, drab dresses and worn-out shoes. Disgust wrinkled his little nose as he reached over the unappealing clothing towards his prize. In his haste, he slipped, his feet landing in a pair of Ida's large blue flip-flops. Panic stricken, Pete tried to free himself from the clunky shoes but, as if caught in an enchanted spell, he found his feet mutating. Before his eyes, they aged rapidly, mirroring the wrinkled feet of his grandmother. Pete's eyes widened in fright as every part of him seemed to follow -- his height and weight ballooned, his skin embraced the weariness of time, and even his clothes morphed into a replica of his grandmother's dress. Thoughts and memories of a four-year-old named Pete started to blur as Ida's life experiences and grudges started to replace them. Suddenly, he was Ida, standing confused in the midst of the living room. His, now her, eyes fell on the dreaded sandals and the discarded cookies. Pain shot through her foot, reminding her of the unpleasant infected toenail under the large flip flop. She grumbled at the discomfort, slow and arduous with the onslaught of age, as she walked over to pick up the offending items. In her hands, the cookies looked small and harmless, but the old bitterness reared its head as she moved to crush the cookies. But a curse escaped her lips as her arthritis-laden hand throbbed at the attempt. She decided it would be easier to blame Pete for the mess when his mother came to pick him up. With a sense of satisfaction, she looked around for Pete, but the young lad was nowhere to be seen. The room was silent, peppered with unanswered questions, the most pressing one being, where indeed was Pete?