Critiques and Writer's Discussion

Are we having a baby? Yes!  A giant baby! These are adult diapers for us? What?  Adult diapers? Well...You have to steer the yact on the high seas wheb there's a storm at night. There's no time for the toilet. I've already explained this all to you 100,000 times. 3 hours of sleep per night, one pair of underwear for ten days, one shower a month.  Pirates.      

@NjoNjo056,I hope you and everyone else is ready. Thank you to everybody who helps support this venture of mine it means so much; you all keep me motivated to keep telling & evolving this tale.    Chapter Sixty: The muted chatter of whatever superhero sequel Bryan had thrown on as background noise. Outside, the palms were silhouettes against a salt-streaked sky; inside, the Goldhawk living room glowed in warm lamplight and the blue wash of the TV. Paul shifted on the couch, sweats bunched around his ankles, the waistband of his hoodie riding up just enough that, if anyone had looked too closely, they would’ve seen the faint, padded swell beneath. Three layers tonight: the soft Safari-print cotton trainers first, a Step In underneath, clear plastic pants over both. It was overkill. It was deliberate. It was the only way he’d agreed to come back out of his room. He could feel it when he moved—the slow, muffled rustle, the way the extra thickness made him choose between slouching and sitting up straight. Everyone had seen him emerge from the hallway after his shower, hair damp, face still a little pale, moving carefully. Everyone had seen the added bulk. No one had said a word. New normal, he thought, trying on the phrase like a shirt that didn’t quite fit yet. On the coffee table, a family-size bowl of popcorn sat half-eaten beside an open pizza box. The smell of chorizo, green peppers, jalapenos, and melted cheese still hung in the air, threaded with the lemon-cleaner note from Kim’s earlier whirlwind. True to her word, she’d rolled up her sleeves the minute they’d let her in the kitchen—washing the dishes that had sat, forgotten, from breakfast, wiping counters with the same brisk affection she applied to wiping kids’ faces, bossing the oven into preheating and the boys into drinking more water. But she’d left before dinner, slipping out with a bright, tired smile and car keys jangling in hand. “Y’all don’t need me hovering while you figure this out,” she’d said, hugging Lilly first, then Bryan. “I’ve got homework and baths waiting on my end. But listen—whatever Paul needs, whatever this turns into? We’re not goin’ anywhere, you hear me? You and yours are family. That don’t change because the packaging on his care does.” Bryan had surprised himself by hugging her tighter than usual, his voice low. “We’ll keep you in the loop. I… I’m grateful, Kim. For all of it.” She’d patted his back twice, the way you do when words aren’t quite enough. “You’d do the same for one of mine,” she’d said. “That’s what friends are. Call me when you hear from Mindy.” Now, hours later, the dishes were done, the pizza grown lukewarm, and Paul’s eyelids had begun to sink somewhere near the third act. The movie was all explosions and quips and blue light; his brain was too tired to track a plot. On screen, a CGI villain screamed something about ultimate power. On the couch, Paul yawned, jaw cracking, head tipping against the cushion. He made a small sound in the back of his throat—somewhere between a sigh and a hum—and let himself slide lower, his shoulder finding the corner of the armrest. The plastic beneath his sweats whispered. His hand, still clutching a few kernels of popcorn, drooped toward his lap. Lilly watched from the armchair across the room, legs tucked under her, a throw blanket over her knees. She’d told herself she was watching the movie. She wasn’t. She was watching him. He looked younger when he relaxed like that—face smoothed out, mouth just barely parted. The shadows under his eyes were softer than they’d been a few days ago. As the minutes ticked on, his breathing evened, deepened. A kernel slipped from his fingers, bounced off his thigh, and rolled into the couch crease. “He’s out,” Lilly murmured. Bryan, sitting at the other end of the couch, glanced over. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Kid didn’t stand a chance.” He clicked the TV remote, dropping the volume to a low murmur, then stood with the easy, practiced slowness of a man who’d carried actors out of stunt rigs and friends out of bars. For a heartbeat he just looked at Paul—at the bare ankle sticking out from the hem of the sweats, at the too-long lashes against his cheeks. Then he slipped an arm under Paul’s shoulders and another beneath his knees, easing him upright. “C’mon, bud,” he whispered. “Let’s get you horizontal before your back hates us both.” Paul mumbled something that might have been words and might have been nothing at all. His head lolled against Bryan’s chest. The rustle under his sweats was faint but present, a private reminder. Bryan tried not to think about it and couldn’t help thinking about it. He didn’t lift him like a child—not completely. It was more of a guided shuffle: Paul’s socked feet skimmed the floor, his weight mostly his own, Bryan steering him with a steady, protective half-embrace. They moved down the hallway and up the stairs the light dimming with each step. Halfway to the bedroom, Bryan’s hand brushed the back of Paul’s hoodie and hesitated, instinct flaring. In the old days—back when there had been car seats and midnight fevers and the smell of formula—he’d check without thinking. Now, he swallowed, then let his fingers drift, casual, to the waistband of the sweats. Dry. Thick, but dry. He didn’t exhale; he just let a bit of tightness ease from the line of his shoulders. In the doorway of Paul’s room, Lilly stayed back, one hand on the frame. From here, she could see both of them in profile: Bryan’s broad back, Paul’s head tipped toward his father’s collarbone, the faint stripe of moonlight across the carpet. The sight tugged at something deep in her chest, something that wasn’t quite jealousy and wasn’t quite relief. You wanted him to have this, she reminded herself. A dad who shows up, not just wires money and signs forms. Still, as she watched Bryan ease Paul down onto the bed, as he help unzip his hoodie as Paul tugged it off, eyes still closed while Bryan simply removed his sweats, she felt suddenly like an understudy peering in on the original cast. Bryan pulled the comforter back, guiding Paul’s legs up onto the mattress. Paul rolled onto his side automatically, fingers finding the edge of his pillow. For a moment, Bryan just stood there, looking down at him with a gaze that was too full to name. Then, reflexive as a heartbeat, he checked again—thumb hooking lightly under the waistband at Paul’s hip, just enough to feel plastic and padding and, blessedly, no damp. “Night, bud,” he said, voice low and unadorned. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Paul’s hairline, something he hadn’t done in… years. The contact was brief, but it might as well have been a mile crossed. Lilly saw his throat work as he straightened. She stayed where she was, in the liminal space of the doorway, as Bryan stepped past her back into the hall. He flicked the lamp on Paul’s desk to its lowest setting and pulled the door mostly closed, leaving a slim rectangle of light between the jamb and the frame. Habit. Hope. In the hush that followed, the house felt different. Not fixed. Not healed. But tilted, just slightly, toward something new. If this is what easy looks like, Lilly thought, maybe we can learn it. And under that: If he leans on Bryan like this… and on Kim… where do I fit when I’m not stage-managing it all? She pushed the thought away for later. There were still conversations waiting downstairs.   The kitchen felt larger at night, the stainless-steel appliances catching dull reflections of the low under-cabinet lights. On the island, the black gym bag Kim had left sat like an accusation—or an invitation. Its zipper glinted. Bryan planted his palms on the edge of the counter, staring at it for a long moment. “Feels like we’re about to open a crime scene,” he muttered. “Or a prop kit,” Lilly said, trying for lightness and landing somewhere closer to brittle. “You ready?” He didn’t answer right away. Then, with a short exhale, he dragged the bag closer and pulled the zipper. The faint scent that rolled out was oddly domestic: lavender, baby lotion, a hint of starch from washed cotton. Bryan reached in first, fingers closing around something soft and crinkly. He pulled out the unopened Safari diaper packing which read 12 in total. The pastel jungle animals on the plastic smiled up at them—giraffes and lions and a wide-eyed elephant in cartoon trees. The word “Safari” arced across the front in a playful font, the marketing copy below promising “maximum comfort and protection” in cheery teal. Bryan’s jaw flexed. He ran his thumb along the edge of the pack, feeling the seam. “This is his reality now,” he said quietly. Not to accuse. Just to name it. Lilly swallowed. “Kim ordered those trainers first,” she said. “The diapers… second.” Bryan’s thumb slowed, resting on a lion’s face. “So she patched the hole we left,” he said. The words sat between them, heavy and true. Guilt and gratitude braided into a single, simple sentence. Lilly reached next to the bag. Her fingers brushed rubbery silicone and closed around the pacifier. She lifted it into the light. The ring was a soft blue, the shield white. In the lamplight, it caught a small, faint scratch where teeth had worried at it. Her chest tightened. She turned it over in her hand, thumb tracing the curve. In another life, in another context, she would’ve been cataloguing it: the pastel palette, the smooth curves, the visual softness, the emotional shorthand. All the things that made SMG work as a concept. Now, holding it over her own kitchen island, with her stepson sleeping upstairs in three layers of protection, it felt… heavier. More intimate. More dangerous. She remembered Atlanta in an instant: the boardroom glass reflecting her blazer, Hilary grinning over the tops of her glasses as they pitched to GAP. SMG storyboards laid out like tarot cards—Lilly as the polished, knowing guide; “WB (Wittle Boy),” their anonymous, brave “boy-next-door,” walking through shame into acceptance under tender, camera-ready care. Oat lattes sweating on coasters. Executives nodding, seeing dollar signs and “brand adjacency.” Now the same visual language sat in her palm, but the “WB” upstairs wasn’t a concept. He was a person whose nightmares still smelled like salt water and antiseptic. Her stomach flipped. For the first time since this all started, the idea of SMG made her want to flinch. Lilly set the pacifier down carefully on the counter, as if it might crack. Bryan kept unpacking. Next came the sippy cup—Safari-themed, too, with a lion wrapped around the side—and, tucked beneath it, a soft-sided bottle the Safari theme carrying on. Then a folded square of waterproof fabric that unfurled into a full-sized Safari changing pad, the same print as the diapers, edges quilted. Bryan ran a finger along the quilted edge. “She really went all in,” he said, voice low. Lilly only hummed. There was a plastic grocery bag knotted shut at the top. When Bryan loosened it, a small avalanche of plastic clacked softly against the island: Batman toddler action figures, each worn just enough around the cape edges to announce regular use even just for a weekend. “She bought him toys?,” Lilly said, a note between fond and wounded slipping into her tone. The last thing at the bottom of the bag was folded deep, tucked almost respectfully under everything else. Lilly drew it out with both hands. It was an oversized adult sleep sack, soft cotton on the outside, silky-smooth on the inside, built like a giant onesie without legs. The faintest trace of lavender lotion still clung to it. Bryan reached out and pinched the fabric between his fingers. For a moment he didn’t trust himself to speak. To anyone else, this would look unforgivable—infantilizing, humiliating, wrong. What he saw, painfully clearly, was a tool. A container, like a weighted blanket with a zipper. Something that someone else had used to keep his son feeling safe when his own body had betrayed him. “This isn’t…” He cleared his throat, trying again. “This isn’t… weird to me. Not like—” He gestured vaguely. “It doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like…tools. Emotional.” Lilly nodded once, eyes still on the fabric. “He slept like a rock in that,” she said. “Kim said he didn’t wake once.” They stood there, side by side, surrounded by artifacts of a weekend neither of them had been present for—and yet, somehow, both of them would be answering for. “So,” Bryan said finally, dragging a hand down his face. “What now?” Lilly leaned her hip against the island, fingertips worrying the corner of the changing pad. “Now?” she said. “We pretend we know what we’re doing. We keep Mindy in the loop. We listen more than we talk. And…” She hesitated. He waited. “…and we don’t make any decisions about SMG,” she finished, “until he’s at the table with us. Really at the table. Not just… footage on a deck.” Bryan’s gaze snapped to her. The fact that she’d brought it up at all told him how much today had shifted. He nodded slowly. “Good,” he said. “Because if we screw that up, I don’t think we come back from it.” Lilly exhaled, feeling the weight of both the promise and the threat. She slid her phone from her back pocket, thumb hovering for a second over Hilary’s name in her messages. Then she tapped. Family stuff. I need to slow our timeline a bit – but trust me, the story is bigger than we even thought. She sent it before she could edit the wording into something more palatable. Her reflection looked back at her in the dark glass of the kitchen window—tired eyes, hair in a messy knot, lavender sleep sack draped over the island like a question. Somewhere between ambitious executive and anxious mother, she didn’t quite recognize herself.   Sunday arrived with light slanting gold through the blinds and the smell of bacon drifting down the hallway. The house felt different—still tender, but less like a wound and more like a bruise that had begun to heal. The week was a blur, especially when Paul’s test results wouldn’t be ready until next Wednesday. Bryan knocked lightly on Paul’s door and cracked it open. “Rise and shine,” he said, voice pitched low, teasing. “We got a date with terrible defense and overpriced nachos.” A muffled groan answered him. Paul rolled onto his back, blinking against the light. His hair stuck up in chaotic directions. For a second, he didn’t remember what day it was, only that his body felt heavy and… rested. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, vibrating against the wood. Mindy’s app notification blinked on-screen: DRY / WET? – Morning check-in. He reached down, hand sliding under the waistband of his pajama shorts. His fingers brushed plastic, soft cotton… and dryness. A small, unbidden smile ghosted across his mouth. “Dry,” he murmured to himself, tapping the app and sliding the toggle to green. The simple motion brought a strange swell of pride. Baby steps. Literally, his brain supplied, and he rolled his eyes at himself. Bryan leaned on the doorframe. “Game kicks at one,” he said. “We leave by eleven. Bathroom, breakfast, then you figure out which jersey you’re wearin’.” “Yessir,” Paul muttered, his voice still scratchy. “On it.” When Bryan withdrew, closing the door most of the way, Paul sat up slowly. The crinkle under him was familiar now, less a shock and more a parameter. He peeled the waistband of his shorts down fully and looked. The Safari trainer was clean. The plastic pants had done their job, even if they hadn’t needed to. He felt… relieved. Not just about the dry padding, but about the fact that he’d worn them at all without a fight. Four days ago, this would’ve felt like a sentence. Now, it felt like… insurance. He stripped them off with practiced motions, quickly grabbing an early morning shower. For a moment he stood there, bare legs pale in the morning light, looking at the open drawer where the remaining Step Ins sat stacked like a quiet suggestion. “I could go without,” he told the empty room. “Just boxers. Just today.” His bladder gave a faint, treacherous twinge at the thought of crowded bathrooms and halftime lines. He sighed, reaching into the drawer. “Plastic pants,” he muttered, almost fondly. “Just for today. Just in case.” The Step In went on first, snug and familiar. The plastic pants followed, rustling softly as he tugged them into place, the waistband snapping lightly against his hips. Then khaki joggers, then Paul tugged the teal Jags jersey down over his compression shirt, the fabric whispering as it slid past his shoulders. The black sleeves hugged his upper arms, stitched numbers bold and blocky against the dark panels, while the rest of the jersey fell loose over his chest in that perfect, slightly-oversized way only real fan gear does. He paused in front of the mirror, running a hand along the jersey’s hem. He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and headed to the kitchen.   The stadium rose from the Jacksonville skyline like a concrete ship, teal flags snapping in the humid air. The closer they got, the louder it grew—music thumping from tailgates, announcer’s voice booming over loudspeakers, the roar of early-arriving fans already half-hoarse with hope. Bryan flashed his studio credentials at the private gate, the security guard grinning. “Back again, Mr. Goldhawk?” he said. “Glutton for punishment,” Bryan replied. “You see our secondary last week?” They fell into easy banter as the scanner beeped them through. Paul walked a step behind, eyes wide despite himself behind his aviator shades. Teal jerseys swarmed in every direction. The smell of grilling onions mixed with spilled beer and sunscreen. Somewhere, a kid blew into a vuvuzela, the off-key blast cutting through the noise like a siren. Inside the suite level, the air cooled, the noise dropping from roar to heavy hum. Carpeting muffled footsteps. The hallway smelled faintly of citrus cleaner instead of sweat. “Bathroom,” Bryan said, nodding toward a door marked with the universal figures. “Before kickoff. No arguments.” Paul’s first instinct was to bristle—the automatic pushback wired into every seventeen-year-old spine. Then he remembered the tilt in Bryan’s voice last night, the way his hand had hovered at his waistband in the hallway, checking, not judging. “Yeah,” he said, surprising himself with how easy the word came. “Good idea.” The private suite restroom, of course, had decided today was the day to fail. A handwritten sign was taped to the door: OUT OF ORDER – PLEASE USE CONCOURSE RESTROOM. Bryan stared at it for a second, then huffed a laugh that was all disbelief. “Of course,” he muttered. “Can’t make it too easy on us.” They followed the signs back toward the main concourse. With every step, the sound swelled—the thump of pre-game hype songs, the announcer booming about concessions, the rising chatter of fans flowing in like a tide. Paul’s heart rate ratcheted up with the volume. The rustle under his pants felt twice as loud here, surrounded by strangers. Bryan angled his body slightly, creating a buffer as they merged into the crowd. When they reached the restroom entrance, he stopped. “I’ll wait right here,” he said. “Take your time.” He didn’t step closer. He didn’t lower his voice as if talking to a child. He just braced one shoulder against the wall, arms folded—not guarding the doorway, just occupying space near it. Inside, the restroom was crowded but not overflowing. Paul picked a stall, locked it, and exhaled when he heard the latch slide home. The Step In was dry. His bladder wasn’t. By the time he finished and refastened, his hands had stopped shaking. When he emerged, Bryan didn’t comment, didn’t ask. He just jerked his chin toward the suite hallway. “Nachos or hot dog first?” he said. “Both,” Paul said, the word leaving his mouth before he could second-guess it. “If we’re gonna suffer through the defense, I want my sodium levels dangerously high.” Bryan grinned, relief easing the lines at the corners of his eyes. “That’s my boy.”   The suite was intimate, not crowded—couches along the back wall, high-top tables by the buffet, padded stadium seats along the glass. A catered spread waited under heating lamps: sliders, wings, the promised nachos, a veggie tray there on principle. From their seats, they could see everything: the green field cut into precise diamonds, players stretching along the sidelines, the bold JAGS lettering painted in the end zone. When the first whistle blew and the teams ran out, the roar that rose up rattled the glass. “Bathroom before half,” Bryan said, leaning in so Paul could hear him. “Same deal as before. Get out ahead of it.” Paul nodded. It didn’t feel like a command. It felt like someone offering him a game plan. They cheered through the Jags’ first drive, groaned when the offense stalled. Paul threw himself into it—booing bad calls, gasping at near-interceptions, laughing when a hot dog vendor almost dropped an entire tray and then saved it with a dramatic flourish. Between plays, Bryan kept up a steady thread of conversation, part play-by-play, part distraction. “Tokyo shoot’s a mess,” he said during a timeout. “We’ve got one stunt guy who thinks he’s invincible and another who thinks he’s made of glass. I’m gonna leave with more grey hair than your principal.” “You already look like Clooney,” Paul said. “It’s working for you.” Bryan snorted. “You hear that, universe? My son thinks I’m pretty. Immortal now.” They talked about Paul’s script, too—about To Kill a Mockingbird and Declan’s direction, about blocking and projection and how to use silence. Bryan’s questions were detailed enough that Paul realized he wasn’t just being polite. He was genuinely interested. Somewhere in the second quarter, during an especially tense Rams drive, Paul got caught up in a third-and-long, the kind of play that electrified the whole stadium. Everyone stood, shouting, foam fingers chopping the air. For a few precious seconds, he forgot everything except the field—the snap, the rush, the arc of the ball. It was only when the play broke—incomplete, the crowd roaring in mixed relief and frustration—that he felt the aftershock in his body. A sharp, urgent squeeze low in his abdomen. Too late. He clenched instinctively, but he felt it—the smallest, traitorous warmth spreading against the front of the Step In. His breath hitched. Not here. Not now. Panic flared, hot and bright. He kept his eyes on the field, jaw tight, heart pounding against his ribs. The game roared around him, but all he could hear was the faint whisper of his own breathing in his ears and the phantom sound of plastic. The warmth stopped as quickly as it began. He shifted minutely in his seat, the Step In and plastic pants doing their unglamorous job. No spreading damp. No tell-tale chill. No visible change. He was fine. He was not fine. He was fine enough. Bryan’s hand landed lightly on his shoulder. Not a grip. Just contact. “You doing okay?” he asked, voice pitched just for him. “Need a break?” The question wasn’t “Did you…?” It was an offer, not an interrogation. Paul swallowed. “I’m good,” he said after a beat. “Maybe at the next timeout.” Bryan nodded once and turned his attention back to the field, giving him the dignity of space. The hand stayed on his shoulder for a moment longer, then withdrew. At the next timeout, they slipped out, back down to the concourse restroom. Bryan took the same position by the door. Inside the stall, Paul checked; the Step In had a small, distinct wet patch at the front, but nothing catastrophic. He switched it out for one he’d tucked in his backpack, the motions smoother this time, less panicked.   By halftime, they’d found a rhythm: bathroom, food, jokes. The Jags were losing, as expected. Life continued. They found a quieter corner of the suite at the break, near a window that looked out over the St. Johns River, the water dull silver under the overcast sky. The stadium hum sank to a manageable throb behind the glass. Bryan leaned his elbows on the railing, looking down. “You know,” he said, “your mom used to hate this place.” Paul blinked. “The stadium?” “The chaos,” Bryan clarified. “She liked the game. Hated the logistics. Too many people, too much noise. When you were little, though, she’d come just for you.” He swallowed, eyes still on the river. “One time—you were… two? Maybe three. We came out for a preseason. You were so excited, you drank three juice boxes before halftime.” Paul could see where this was going before Bryan even said it. His stomach flipped, a weird mix of dread and curiosity. “You held it as long as you could,” Bryan went on. “Then, right as we hit the stairs for the aisle, you just… lost it. Shorts, socks, the whole deal. You were mortified. Thought the world had ended. Rachel—she just looked at you, put her sweater around your waist, and said, ‘Good thing these seats aren’t carpeted.’” He chuckled once, softly. Paul let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I don’t remember that,” he said quietly. “Good,” Bryan said. “Means the embarrassment didn’t stick.” He turned, looking at his son fully now. “Point is, this? This isn’t new to us. Not really. Different shape, different age. Same job.” “What job?” Paul asked, though the answer was already there in his father’s eyes. “To keep you safe while you figure your body out,” Bryan said. “Not to make you feel smaller for needing help.” Paul looked back at the field. Players milled like ants between quarters, coaches barking, mascots dancing with manufactured joy. He thought of Kim’s nursery, of Savannah’s jeep, of the way his muscles had unclenched when someone else had held the line for him. “At Kim’s,” he said slowly, “it felt… easy. Like… there were no stakes. No audience. Just…” He groped for the word. “Held. I didn’t know I missed that until it was happening.” “And now?” Bryan asked. “Now I’m terrified I’ll get stuck there,” Paul admitted, voice low. “That I’ll blink and be eighteen and still—” He broke off, hand flicking in frustration. “Padding and pacis and all?” Bryan finished gently. Paul’s cheeks burned. He nodded once. Bryan turned fully, resting a hand on the railing beside Paul’s, shoulders close. “It’s not a place you’re stuck,” he said. “It’s a place we visit when you need it. You don’t go there alone. We go with you. And we leave together.” Paul’s throat tightened. “Promise?” he asked before he could stop himself. The word felt younger than his age, but also exactly right. “On my life,” Bryan said.     Lilly leaned against the cool marble of the kitchen island, ring light haloing the counter in soft white. Her phone was propped in a tripod, back camera on, framing a bottle of local Florida white—pale gold, condensation sliding lazily down the glass. “Okay, last take,” she muttered, rolling her shoulders once. She tapped record, smile blooming on cue. “Hey, darlings,” she drawled into the lens, voice slipping into its practiced, honeyed register. “Back in Jacksonville and I had to share this little gem—Saint Augustine Sunlit, a Florida white that tastes like key lime pie and a day off.” She poured, let the wine catch the light, swirled it just so. “Crisp, a little citrus, not too sweet. Perfect for a porch swing, a sunset, or… surviving whatever life throws at you this week.” A small laugh, easy but edged with truth. “Taggin’ this as #sponsored, but y’all know I don’t share anything I wouldn’t drink myself.” She took a sip, eyes closing briefly, letting the moment linger on camera. “I’ll put the link in stories. Be good to yourselves, okay?” She stopped the recording, exhaled, and let her smile drop. The ring light hummed softly. For a moment, she just stood there, fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass like it was a lifeline. The house murmured its empty noises—the AC kicking on, the faint tick of the oven cooling from earlier, a neighbor’s car easing down the street. Somewhere in the distance, if she tried, she could imagine the roar of the stadium where Bryan and Paul were, teal and gold and bad defense and overpriced nachos. She lifted the glass again, this time not for the camera. “To whatever the hell we’re building,” she said under her breath, and took a longer, slower sip. The wine was exactly what she’d said—citrus, sunshine, a little mercy. When the glass was half gone and the tightness in her chest had loosened by a fraction, she rinsed the lipstick from the rim, set it in the sink, and wandered toward the front door. The late afternoon had gone soft and gray. She opened the door, the hinge giving its familiar little creak, and stepped onto the porch. Humid air wrapped around her, thick with the smell of cut grass and distant ocean salt. The mailbox waited at the edge of the drive, black and ordinary. She padded down in her bare feet, the concrete warm against her soles. Inside the box: the usual chaos of adulthood. She pulled it all out in one stack, the edges biting into her palm, and headed back in, shutting the door with her hip. Back at the island, she spread the mail like a tarot spread. Electric bill. Grocery flyer. Some alumni magazine addressed to Bryan. A local pizza coupon. And— She frowned. A small padded envelope, cream-colored, just big enough to hold a hand-sized object. No return address. No company logo. Just her name and the house address in neat, looping handwriting. The flap was sealed with three tiny stickers: pink hearts, one slightly crooked. A chill threaded down her spine. Lilly set the rest of the mail aside and turned the envelope over in her hands. It was feather-light; whatever was inside slid from corner to corner when she tilted it. “Fan mail?” she murmured to herself, but the joke didn’t land. Her thumbnail slipped cleanly under the flap. She peeled it back and reached inside. Her fingers brushed hard plastic and the smooth edge of folded paper. She drew out a plain black USB stick and a small note, the paper scented faintly with cheap vanilla body spray. The handwriting matched the front—round, feminine, confident. Bubble loops in the y’s, a little flourish on the capital H. For your eyes only. I think you might want these. – Harley 💕 Lilly’s stomach dropped, the floor pitching just slightly. Harley. The delivery driver with the copper red hair, bright eyes and sharper intuition. The one who’d joked about diapers and babysitting like it was nothing. The kitchen suddenly felt too quiet. The ring light, still on but idle, cast a pale circle on the backsplash. Lilly swallowed, throat dry despite the wine. Reaching over for her personal laptop and flipped it open. The screen blinked awake, washing the room in cold blue. Her hand shook—just a little—as she slid the USB into the port. The computer chimed cheerfully, oblivious. A removable drive popped up almost immediately, labeled in a cutesy font that matched the hearts on the envelope: PIER_DAY 💗 Her cursor hovered over the drive icon. Don’t, a part of her whispered. You already know what’s on there. You have to, another part shot back. Before anyone else does. She double-clicked. A single folder. Another double-click. A grid of thumbnails bloomed across the screen—tiny stills from a day she hadn’t actually looked at yet, not like this. She clicked the view larger. Rows and rows of moments: Sunlit planks of pier during that festival a few weeks ago. The curve of the boardwalk railing. The gleam of water. Her own profile in one shot, head tipped toward a taller figure—her hair in that loose braid she’d worn for the shoot, sunglasses pushed up. Her chest tightened. Halfway down the grid, a particular thumbnail snagged her, pulling her gaze like a hook. Even at an inch tall she knew that posture, that slope of shoulders. Paul, in profile, standing just outside the family restroom door. His face turned slightly away—but the dark, blossom-shaped stain on the front of his shorts was unmistakable. Someone had captured the exact second his world collapsed. Lilly’s hand flew to her mouth, fingers pressing hard against her lips. In the wash of screen light, none of it felt real. Her cursor drifted down, almost of its own accord, settling over the image without clicking. As she hovered, a caption box slid into view beneath the thumbnail—text someone had typed into the photo’s metadata, jaunty and pink against the pale gray. Sitter Wanted: Not afraid of ANY-sized diaper changes. Call me. Her vision blurred for a heartbeat as she saw the number in full, then snapped back into focus, the words swimming. It wasn’t just a picture. An invitation. A threat. Lilly exhaled shakily, dropped her hand from her mouth, and rested her fingertips on the counter to steady herself. Harley’s note sat beside the laptop, hearts smiling up at her. Whatever rhythm they’d just begun to find… was about to be tested all over again.

Of course it’s only a cliffhanger for me. I’m like a pixie and an Amazon getting spanked and diaper is the same as believing in a pace so they live. (It’s totally nothing at all similar to an addict needing or receiving their fix. So don’t even think about that comparison, it’s all lies I tell you.)

As an incontinent young man I was grateful for the help the ABDL crowd gave me in finding better products to live a full, dry life. But I know a lot of incontinents find us annoying, still I wonder if deep down they shouldn't be grateful for the ABDL crowd. We mainstreamed high-performance diapers in a world focused on the 3-hour change schedule of hospitals, and marketing diapers as a "want" not just a need. (Can you imagine a black friday sale on diapers at medical stores 10 year ago?) Not to mention normalzing diapers to a degree that makes it easier for all of us to live our best padded life. Yeah they have to deal with the HNG's asking inapropriate questions, and abusing call-in lines and incontinence forums; but as a whole I think we are more of a net-positive when it comes to support, caring and knowing you can live padded happily.

Still the winner