Critiques and Writer's Discussion

A mid-ish week early moring chapter drop..... Chapter One Hundred & Nine: Part 1 Paul’s chest felt too tight for air. Amber. The name slipped out of him again, barely audible, like it had found a groove in his throat and refused to leave. His heart pounded so hard it made his ears ring. At the foot of the bed, she stood there. Vivid enough to steal his breath, she was holding something pale in her hands, folded neatly, deliberately. A diaper. Clean. Mockingly pristine. Her smile was crooked, sharp at the edges, a parody of sweetness that made his stomach lurch. “Awww,” she crooned, voice pitched too high. “What’s da matter, babyeee?” Paul tried to speak. Nothing came out. Her eyes glittered with something cruel. “Are you such a wet wittle freak,” she continued, tilting her head, exaggerating every syllable, “that you need your step-mommy and my Mami to change you for the day?” The word freak landed like a slap. His vision tunneled. His body went cold, then hot all at once. Shame crawled up his spine, fast and suffocating. Amber took one step closer. And then— We pull back—away from Paul’s eyes. Martina stood at the dresser, her back half-turned, methodically gathering a fresh change. Calm. Efficient. Her movements were unhurried, practiced, grounded in routine. There was no cruelty in her posture. No mockery. Just care. Lilly sat on the edge of the bed.  She was close enough that Paul could feel the mattress dip under her weight. One hand brushed his cheek, slow and deliberate, her thumb smoothing the skin just beneath his eye as if she were wiping away something invisible. Then the back of her hand pressed gently to his forehead. “Amber?” Martina echoed from the dresser, pausing mid-motion. There was genuine confusion in her voice now, not alarm—just concern. She turned slightly and added in Spanish, her tone firm but gentle: “No, no, no. Amber está en la escuela.” (No, no, no. Amber is at school.) She stepped closer, her expression softening as she looked at him. “¿Por qué querías que estuviera aquí?” (Why did you want her here?) Lilly leaned in, her voice low and soothing, carefully pitched to meet him where he was. “Hey, honey,” she murmured. “Are you feeling alright?” Her hand stayed on his forehead a moment longer, then slid back to cup his cheek. “Hmmm… you don’t feel warm.” A pause. A searching look. “Are you still sad after the rough night you had?” Another soft hum. “Hmmmm?” Paul blinked. Once. Twice. The room sharpened. Another blink, another breath—and the phantom of Amber slipped away, taking the cruelty with her. Just Martina by the dresser. Lilly beside him. Morning light spilling across the bed in ordinary, unthreatening stripes. “Oh,” Paul said quietly, the word scraping out of him like it had to climb over something heavy. He swallowed. “Yeah… I guess that has to be it.” His gaze drifted to the window, to the normalcy of the day pressing in. “The nightmare.” He exhaled—long, shaky—but this time, the breath came back. Lilly didn’t pull her hand away, instead she leaned down and pressed a soft, grounding kiss to Paul’s cheek before straightening, her hand lingering at the side of his face for a moment longer than necessary. “There we go,” she murmured gently. “Mommy’s got you.” Paul exhaled, shoulders loosening just a fraction. Lilly carefully unzipped the lower half of the sleep sack and helped him out of it, the fabric pooling at his feet before she set it aside. The night had clearly taken its toll—his posture, his eyes, the quiet heaviness in his body espically how his plastic pants seemed to have ballooned due to the thickness from underneath, all spoke to how hard he’d worked just to get through it. Martina glanced over from the dresser with a warm, knowing smile. “Alguien estuvo muy ocupado anoche,” she said lightly. (Somebody’s been a busy boy.) Paul flushed instantly, shaking his head with a half-smile. “Not that busy.” It was said without shame. Without fear. Just warmth. Lilly helped him steady himself and gestured gently toward the bathroom. “Alright, honey. Why don’t you grab a fresh Step-In and get changed, then come back out, okay?” Paul nodded. “And after that,” Lilly continued, her tone shifting into calm, confident leadership, “we’re going to show Martina what  your physical therapy looks like—just in case she ever needs to help you with it.” Paul let out a small, instinctive whine. “Really?” “Yes, really,” Lilly replied, affectionate but firm. “We’ve got a schedule today, sweetheart. A little exercise to wake your body up, then breakfast. After that, we’ll get you ready for the shoot so you’re comfortable and don’t have to worry about anything while we work.” She smiled, already planning out loud. “And then you get to help set up with Hilary and the crew before you grab a front-row seat while Martina makes you and Savannah dinner.” Paul paused mid-step. “S—Savannah?” he asked, hope lifting his voice before he could stop it. Lilly blinked, then laughed softly. “Yes, silly boy.” She ruffled his hair affectionately. “Didn’t you remember?” Paul hesitated. A flicker passed across his face—memory brushing up against the edges of the night before. Lilly caught it immediately. “Oh,” she said, softer now. “That’s right.” Her voice gentled even more as she continued. “Silly me I must have forgotten. Last night was a lot.” She took a breath, then smiled brightly again. “So—since I have a GAP shoot later this afternoon and into Saturday evening in Ft. Lauderdale, I asked Savannah if she’d like to hang out with you for a day and a half.” She tilted her head slightly, giving him space. “Is that alright with you?” Inside, Lilly made a deliberate choice—not to say sitter, not to frame it like supervision. This was about giving him something normal. Something chosen. Paul’s answer burst out of him before he could regulate it. “YES.” He immediately flushed, trying to rein himself in. “I mean—yeah. That sounds great. Thank you so much.” Lilly barely had time to react before his arms wrapped around her again—this hug loose, grateful, full of warmth instead of panic. She hugged him back, smiling into his hair. These hugs, she thought. She loved these. But that didn’t mean she wanted the other ones to disappear. She glanced past him at the clock. 8:15 a.m. “Alright, mister,” she said playfully, giving his padded backside a few light pats. “Let’s get it in gear. We’re having an awesome start to the day.” Paul laughed and shuffled quickly toward the walk-in closet, already reaching for a fresh Step-In as he went. The bathroom door shut behind him with a decisive click. Martina leaned closer to Lilly, her voice dropping into a whisper that danced between Spanish and English. “Entonces… parece que ese niño tiene un lugar especial en su corazón para Savannah.” (So… it sounds like that boy has a special place in his heart for Savannah.) Lilly felt her cheeks warm. She laughed quietly. “Shhhhh.Don’t tell anybody.” But as she turned away, her thoughts lingered. How much does Savannah think about Paul the same way? And what really happened that weekend? “Sav-vyyyyy,” Mama Kim’s voice rang out, rich with Southern drawl, layered with love, and sharpened by the kind of authority that came from decades of running a household where everybody mattered. Rolling up the staircase like it had done for decades. “Baby, if you don’t put some pep in them legs right now, you’re gonna be sittin’ in traffic so long you’ll miss the clinic and be late gettin’ to Paul’s. And Lord knows this house does not move on Savannah Time.” The Van Buren house answered her the way it always did—with creaks, echoes, and the soft grandeur of a Southern home that had been lived in hard and loved harder. Sunlight poured through the tall plantation windows, catching on white trim and polished banisters, which curved upward, polished smooth by generations of hands. The casting honeyed light across the wide hallway and the framed family photos lining the walls. The smell of coffee, butter, and applewood smoke hung thick in the air—breakfast in full swing. Savannah smiled before she even opened her door. She stepped out mid-stride, already fastening the last snap on her scrub top. She looked—effortless. Her hair, a cascade of warm amber waves, was pulled back loosely, not tight enough to feel clinical, not loose enough to get in the way. A few tendrils framed her face, catching the light and softening her sharp cheekbones. Her skin still held the glow of sleep and good genes, freckles dusted lightly across her nose like they’d chosen their spots carefully. She wore fresh scrubs patterned with BeeBop dinosaurs—teal, playful, deliberately comforting. An overnight bag rested against her hip. “Comin’, Mama,” Savannah called back. “I’m movin’. I’m movin’.” “Uh-huh,” Kim replied immediately. “You say that every time.” Savannah laughed under her breath and headed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the bottom, she set her overnight bag neatly by the front door—upright, zipped, ready—before turning toward the kitchen like it was the true center of gravity in the house. William sat in his high chair, legs kicking, face already sticky. His bib bore the clear evidence of a serious breakfast effort. Mya stood at the dishwasher, scraping her plate with exaggerated care. “Morning, Sav,” Mya said without turning. “Mornin’, superstar,” Savannah replied, leaning in to kiss the crown of her sister’s head. “You clearin’ your plate like a responsible citizen?” Mya shrugged. “Mostly.” The front door opened again. Charles stepped inside, jacket still on, cheeks flushed from the morning air. “Bus run complete,” he announced.“Robert has officially been released into the academic wild.” Kim appeared at his side instantly, hands already straightening his collar, brushing invisible lint from his shoulder. Her blonde hair fell in soft, lived-in waves—brushed, but not fussed. Blue eyes alert. Awake. Ready. She wasn’t a supermodel, and she didn’t try to be. Her body carried strength in the thighs, fullness in the chest, an hourglass shape earned by life, not dieting. Comforting. Capable. “Mmm-hmm. And you ain’t done yet. You still got Mya.” The cornbread sandwiches sat cooling on the rack, still breathing heat into the kitchen. Golden and split clean down the middle, the crumb looked impossibly soft, butter already melted so deep into it that the surface shone. When Charles picked one up, the smell bloomed immediately—sweet corn, toasted edges, and that unmistakable smoky applewood note drifting up like a promise. Inside, the eggs were folded loose and tender, still steaming, with thick-cut smoky bacon tucked between the layers. The cornbread held it all together just long enough to bite before crumbling the way real cornbread should—warm, sweet, and indulgent. Charles couldn’t help himself and took a big bite. Still able to talk, he cleared his throat after swallowing half the bite and washed it down with his coffee. “I know, I know. Mya’s next.” William watched him closely—studying. He then slapped his hands against the tray, bits of cornbread clinging to his fingers. Then shoved another mouthful in and shouted proudly, crumbs flying..... “Me talk wike Daddy!” he announced proudly, cheeks puffed with food. He tried again, louder. “Me taaawk wike Daaaddy!” Crumbs flew. Mama Kim gasped dramatically. “Charles! Don’t you dare give that boy ideas.” She bent down to William’s level, voice dropping into a gentler register but losing none of its authority. “And you, sir—young gentleman— wedo not talk with your mouth full. You hear me surgar?” William nodded hard. “Otay,” he said solemnly. Mya burst out laughing. “Silly Willy.” She walked over, kissed William’s cheek, hugged Mama Kim tight, then wrapped Savannah in a quick squeeze. “Can we have a  movie night on Saturday?” Savannah hesitated just long enough to be honest. “Maybe Sunday afternoon. I’m busy this weekend.” Mya’s face fell. “Why not?” Mama Kim answered smoothly, already knowing the question mattered. “Because Savvy’s stayin’ at Auntie Lilly’s with Paul.” Mya blinked. “Is Savvy babysitting Paul? Isn’t he a big boy?” Savannah knelt, meeting her sister’s eyes. “Yeah. Paul’s bigger than William. But sometimes everybody—big or small—just needs company for a bit.” Mama Kim nodded, proud. “That’s right, baby bear. Paul just needs a little extra attention while his mama’s away.” Mya thought about it, then shrugged. “Okay. Daddy, I wanna sit up front.” “Alright, princess,” Charles said. At the sound of Paul’s name, William began bouncing in his chair, singing through a half-full mouth “Will go wif Sissy! Pway wif Pawl! Pway Turtuhs wif Pawl! YAAAAY!” Kim lowered herself to his level, voice steady and warm. “No, sugar. Not this weekend. Sissy’s gotta help Paul at Auntie Lilly’s.” William processed that for exactly half a second. Then— “NOOOO!” he hollered, heels thumping against the high chair rung. His hands smacked the tray—thap, thap—sending crumbs jumping. “Wanna Paw! Wanna turdles! Wanna PWAYYY!” His voice cracked into a siren, breath hitching as his face went red. Kim waited it out, one hand resting lightly on the tray so it didn’t become airborne. She let the feelings roll, didn’t rush them, didn’t scold. Then, when there was a tiny pause for air, she leaned in just a bit closer, smile soft and conspiratorial. “Well now,” she said gently, drawing the words out, “how ‘bout I tell you a little somethin’.” William sniffed hard. “Wha…?” Kim’s eyes sparkled. “In a few sleeps—just a few—Paul’s gonna come over right here. And when he does?” She lowered her voice like it was a secret meant only for him. “Y’all are gonna have the BIGGEST and BESTEST playdate.” William’s crying stalled mid-sob. “Bestess…?” he echoed, hiccuping. “That’s right,” Kim nodded solemnly. “With sur-priiises for my turtle tots.” William froze. Then his brows lifted. “Tur… turdle tots?” he asked carefully. “Mmhmm,” Kim confirmed. “Surprises. Games. Maybe even some Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.” Something miraculous happened. William’s mouth popped into a grin so fast it was like someone flipped a switch. He bounced in his seat, pacifier string jingling as he kicked happily. “Paw comin’!” he squealed. “BIG playdate! TURDLES!” He clapped once, then twice, spraying a little drool as he laughed. “No cry now!” Kim chuckled, brushing his cheek with her thumb. “That’s my boy.” William beamed, stuffing a fistful of food back into his mouth and announcing proudly, “Me wait. I big boy wait.” Charles chuckled, then took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then nodded to himself before speaking again. “Bryan mentioned it out at the course,” he said calmly, like he was talking about the weather instead of something heavy. “Didn’t go into details. Didn’t need to.” Savannah nodded, quieter now. “Things have… gotten heavier and harder for him daddy. There are times when Pal simply can’t be big.” He swallowed, eyes steady on Savannah now. “Sounds like Paul’s doing a lot of work just being Paul these days. That’s not weakness. That’s effort.” He took another bite, then added, softer, “And effort deserves good people around it.” Charles glanced toward Kim, then back to Savannah. “He’s in good hands. With you. With your mama. With Lilly and Bryan. Sometimes the bravest thing someone can do is let the right folks stay close.” Kim clapped once. “Good. Then we’ll need a family meetin’ before Christmas anyway. Both families on the slopes together.” For just a second, Savannah drifted—Paul bundled in a snowsuit, over-padded, falling backward into fresh snow as they made snow angels. A pacifier bobbed at his lips. She blinked. Kim pressed a warm breakfast sandwich into Savannah’s hand as she walked Savannah to the front door slowly, one hand resting at the small of her back, the way she always had—protective without hovering. Kim then pulled Savannah into a hug, squeezing just a second longer than usual before letting her go. “Now listen to me, baby,” she said softly, that gentle Southern drawl carrying years of knowing. “You got a good heart. Big one. And big hearts gotta be careful not to pour themselves dry.” Savannah swallowed, nodding. Kim tilted her head, blue eyes kind but sharp. “When you’re lookin’ after littles—big ones or small ones—it ain’t about givin’ more and more. It’s about givin’ when they choose it.” She brushed Savannah’s arm. “Comfort should always be an invitation, not a decision you make for ‘em. You let Paul tell you when he needs extra cuddlin’, extra softness. That’s how you keep him safe… and yourself too.” Kim smiled gently, knowingly. “You ain’t like everybody. And that’s a blessing. But balance, baby bear—that’s what keeps care from turnin’ into control.” She pulled Savannah into one last hug, firm and grounding. “You do that, and you’ll be just fine.”     Paul was extremely grateful that—despite another full round of what Mindy and Nia cheerfully referred to as “tummy time”—his bladder had held during PT. That alone felt like a victory. He lay back on the mat for a moment afterward, chest rising and falling, sweat cooling against his skin, the faint tremor in his muscles slowly easing. The exercises had been harder today—longer holds, more deliberate control—and he’d felt the familiar heat of embarrassment when Lilly and Martina hovered nearby, watching closely, offering encouragement that was both earnest and unavoidable. “Look at you,” Lilly had said, clapping softly when he finished the last set. “That was stronger. You held that longer than yesterday.” Martina had nodded, pride shining openly on her face. “Muy bien, Pauly. Mucho más control.” At first, the attention had made his ears burn. He hated being watched while his body worked so hard just to do things that once felt automatic. But something had shifted halfway through the session. Somewhere between the strain in his arms and the grounding pressure of the mat beneath him, he’d realized— He was getting stronger. Not fixed. Not finished. But stronger. And that mattered. What surprised him most was how grateful he felt afterward—not just that he hadn’t leaked, but that the adult training pants he wore now gave him freedom he hadn’t expected. He’d never imagined wishing for them, let alone appreciating them. But the difference was undeniable. No tightness. No constant hyper-awareness between his legs. Just space to move. Space to breathe.   Especially after breakfast.   Lilly had handed him a homemade granola bar still warm from the oven—oats, honey, nuts pressed together just enough to hold—and followed it with a protein yogurt shake she’d blended herself. Yes, it was served in his familiar safari bottle, but Paul barely flinched anymore. After everything they’d seen—after the nights they’d steadied him when his body shut down—it didn’t feel like a concession.   It felt like care.   He drank it easily, standing at the counter while Martina cleaned up nearby, the hum of the kitchen settling into something domestic and calm. When he finished the last swallow, Lilly smiled wide.   “You did that all on your own,” she said. “Good job, sweetheart.”   The word sweetheart didn’t sting today. It warmed.   And when he rinsed the bottle himself and wiped down the counter without being asked, Martina laughed softly. “Mira nada más—our boy is taking charge.”   That feeling—pride—followed him into the next task. Because once breakfast was done, it was time to work. The shoot prep.   Paul rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms once, and headed for the garage before either woman could suggest it. This part of the day—this, he knew. He’d grown up around film sets. Bryan had brought him along since he was six, taught him early how to respect cables, how to move with purpose around equipment, how not to touch what wasn’t yours unless you were asked. Sets felt familiar in a way few other environments did. Controlled. Intentional. Predictable. “Okay,” Paul said, already scanning the space. “We can start with the lighter stands.” Lilly blinked. “You sure?” Paul nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got it.” He reached first for the bi-color LED panel lights, the kind mounted on collapsible stands—lightweight aluminum, manageable if you knew how to lock the legs properly. He carried them inside from the garage back into the kitchen, then another, setting them down carefully in the living room. Next came the softbox kit—fabric folded neatly around compact frames—followed by two ring lights still in their cases. He grabbed the extension cords, coiled properly, and a small C-stand they used for overhead fill. Martina watched him for a moment from the doorway, impressed. “He knows exactly what he’s doing,” she murmured to Lilly. “He does,” Lilly replied quietly. “He always has.” Paul moved with focus now, posture straightening as he worked. He placed the LED panels first—one angled toward the kitchen prep space, the other positioned to soften shadows near the island. He adjusted the stands to eye level, checking balance, tightening knobs with practiced hands. “Table’s gotta move,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll need the floor clear for the demo.” Without waiting, he shifted the kitchen table himself—slow, careful, but determined—sliding it into the living room just far enough to clear the frame. By the time Lilly and Martina had begun prepping the food, the space had transformed. The lighting grid was set. The floor was clear. The kitchen looked ready. Martina laid out the ingredients for the quesabirria tacos—slow-simmered birria broth rich with spices, shredded meat ready to crisp on the griddle, tortillas stacked neatly, cheese waiting to melt just right. Beside it, she arranged the filling for the empanadas—baked, not fried—a hearty vegetable mixture of roasted sweet potato, caramelized onion, bell pepper, zucchini, corn, and black beans, seasoned with cumin, smoked paprika, garlic, and a touch of lime. Warm. Comforting. Intentional. When Martina finally looked up, she stopped short. Paul stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, surveying the setup like a quiet director. “All set,” he said simply. The words barely had time to settle before the mood shifted. “I don’t need all of that,” Paul said, the protest slipping out softer than he intended. Not anger—just fatigue. The kind that came from having already given so much of himself this morning. As he watched her unfold what she called a booster pad. She smoothed it down with care, aligning it precisely in the fresh diaper she unfolded, fluffed out and slide underneath him, pressing once along the edges so it would stay put. The gesture—so practiced, so calm—made his chest tighten. Lilly didn’t answer right away. She worked the way she always did in moments like this: efficiently, deliberately, refusing to dramatize what she knew had to be done. Paul huffed softly as she finished adjusting things, the feeling of cream being rubbed onto his most sensitive areas, the tickling of powder as it fell, the sound of Lilly pulling up his dinosaur-themed diaper, and fastening the tapes. The thickness registered immediately — undeniable, present in a way he wished it wasn’t. “Do I have to?” he asked again, the whine clearer this time. He hated hearing it in his own voice, hated how tired he sounded—but exhaustion had a way of stripping the polish off everything. “Yes, Paul,” Lilly replied, her back turned as she disposed of the parically used Step-In. Her tone was firm, not cold. Final, not cruel. “Just for this morning.” She turned then, meeting his eyes so he wouldn’t mistake her resolve for dismissal.   “That extra protection is for the length of the shoot,” she continued, more gently. “And we’re going to add one for everyone of your nighttime changes moving forward.”   Paul swallowed.   “After this morning, honey,” she said quietly, choosing her words with care, “your body was pushing its limits. I don’t want leaks. I don’t want surprises. And I don’t want you spiraling first thing in the moring or in the middle of a long day when you’re needed.”   She gestured toward the outfit folded neatly on the chair. “Your onesie and jeans will cover it just fine. No one will notice. And you won’t have to spend the whole time worrying.” Paul shifted on the table, the movement awkward, restrictive. His legs didn’t want to cooperate the way they usually did. He let out a frustrated breath, staring at the wall now instead of the ceiling. For a second, he wanted to argue as he hopped carefully off the changing table. His legs barely wanted to close, the extra bulk forcing his movements to adjust.   He paused, standing there, and despite himself, his mind drifted back to the last few nights. The last few nights. The way sleep had been heavier—but messier. How things had been harder to control ever since Martina’s house.   Ever since Amber.   He hated the reminder. Hated what it implied. But he couldn’t deny it.   Resigned, Paul nodded once.   “Okay,” he muttered.   Lilly didn’t smile. She didn’t comment. She simply reached out and gave his arm a brief squeeze—solid, grounding. “Thank you,” she said quietly.   Together, they folded the changing table back down once he was upright—no ceremony, no lingering. Just a task completed. Lilly glanced at the clock and then back at him.   “I’m going to get changed,” she said. “Take a minute if you need it and come back donwstairs Hiliary and the rest of the crew will be here shortly.”   The bedroom smelled faintly of baby powder and something sharper underneath — anxiety, clinging to his skin like static. Every step came with its own quiet reminder, a soft crinkle trailing him no matter how carefully he moved. The second the door clicked shut behind Lilly, he reached for his phone and thumbed the volume higher until his room filled with the bright, almost defiant optimism of a 90’s one-hit wonder.    The opening chords of the New Radicals song cut through the quiet like a lifeline—loud enough to push back the soft crinkle of movement, loud enough to give his thoughts something else to hold onto.   He focused on his hands.   Button by button, he fastened the black onesie, the fabric pulling a little tighter than usual over his torso. The added bulk underneath made the shirt sit differently against his body—subtle, but noticeable if you were already looking for flaws. Paul tried not to look for flaws.   Then came the jeans. For one sharp second, panic flared. They’re not going to fit.   His chest tightened the way it always did when fear decided to narrate. But it was just his mind playing tricks on him—fear had always been good at finding reins and yanking hard. The denim slid up. The button closed. The zipper followed. He added a belt, grounding himself in the familiar motion.   He exhaled. And then he looked in the mirror. From the side, his reflection felt… altered. His backside protruded a little more than he was used to, like his silhouette had shifted just enough to be noticeable, like he had more "junk in his trunk". From the front, the extra padding created a fullness he didn’t want to acknowledge—more presence than he would have chosen. He stared. I look like I’m smuggling a cloud under my pants. The thought landed uninvited, equal parts absurd and humiliating. It was comfortable—warm, secure—but out of place for someone who was supposed to be almost eighteen. Someone who was supposed to be moving forward, not negotiating space inside his own clothes. His tracker buzzed faintly at his hip. Yellow. Not dangerous—but not settled either. Paul swallowed. He needed one more piece of armor. He knew exactly which one.   From the closet, he pulled it free—careful, almost reverent. The Florida Panthers hockey jersey slid over his hands, heavy in a reassuring way. Black as its base, with bold Miami Vice–style accents: electric teal and hot pink cutting across the chest in clean, confident lines. The panther logo looked sharp, predatory, alive—its teal eyes edged in pink like neon under stadium lights. The collar trim echoed the same colors, modern and loud in a way that didn’t apologize for being seen. It didn’t hide him completely. But it reframed him. The oversized fit draped just right, breaking up the outline he’d been obsessing over, giving his body a shape that felt intentional instead of accidental. When he looked back at the mirror this time, the panic loosened its grip.   His tracker ticked back toward green. Okay, he told himself. This works.   The music swelled behind him, the chorus rising as if on cue, and for a moment—just a moment—he felt almost like himself again. Not fragile. Not managed. Just… Paul.   Then Lilly’s voice crawled up the stairs.   “Paul,” she called, warm but purposeful, “come down, sweetheart. The camera crew is here—and Hilary wants to say hi.”   The words landed heavier than they should have. The world rushed back in.   Paul paused. Breathed in.   Let the jersey settle against his shoulders.   He turned toward the door and walked—waddled, if he was being honest—down the hall as naturally as he could manage. Each step carried its own quiet soundtrack, his body reminding him of what the music couldn’t fully drown out.   His tracker flickered again. Yellow. Not red. Not yet.

I wear 24/7 as I have urge incontinence and can't get through the night without peeing at least four times (nocturia). I have been wearing the InControl BeDry Night at night - they're not cheap but they are effective. I often poop in them - sometimes through incontinence and sometimes for pleasure! I've tried the Vivactive Slip Ultimate (in the UK) and they're pretty good and a lot cheaper. During the day I wear Aldi's Sana pants if I'm staying local and I'm going to be near a loo (restroom). These will take a full pee (bear in mind I'm incontinent so my capacity is less than when I was young and peeing in nappies for a hobby...) in an emergency, which happens fairly often. If I'm likely to be away from the loo for any period I wear Tena Slip Active Utlima. 

"Oh, vous cuisinez ? Ça sent délicieusement bon !" I exclaimed as I padded over in my socks so that I could peer into the soup pot to see what was bubbling. It was recognisably vegetable soup and it looked good. We had been out for most of the morning and so we were having lunch a little late and I was feeling hungry.  Magda said something which went over my head and so I simply watched her as she left the kitchen wondering if she had intended for me to follow her but she returned soon after leaving.  She opened up a child's picture book and I looked on with curiosity and then a slight blush came across my face as I realised what was going on. The book was for me to try to read, to learn Slovak like a little would, as Magda's son had done years and years ago.  "Est-ce vraiment la meilleure façon pour moi d'apprendre votre langue ?" I whined a little indignantly, clearly not amused to be asked to read like a child but eventually I sighed and accepted that I had to start somewhere if I wanted to learn how to communicate.  "Otec... Peter... Matka... Magda... Syn... Milan." I repeated and notably left out 'Dcéra... Jo'.  As Magda attended her meal we continued the learning game with me touching or pointing at things and looking at her expectantly and I would speak the French word and she would share the Slovak word.  "Une louche" the ladel she was stirring soup with.  "Le pot" the pot.  "La soupe." the soup in the pot.  "Le tableau." the table I sat at.  The game ended when it was time to eat and I sat at the table as Magda served.  The meal was simple but very tasty. I'd never eaten the Slovak bread that Magda served with the soup. It was savoury and maybe a bit creamy and sour? Whatever the case I enjoyed it and even though we couldn't chat over our shared lunch it was apparent that I was comfortable and content, quite the contrast to various states of shock and distress I had been in this morning.  "je peux le faire." I offered quickly after we finished out meal and I took our dishes to the sink to rinse them and wash them up. Afterwards I spent the time waiting for Peter to return home reading the picture book and challenging myself to close my eyes and try to remember the words without reading the text. This was a good opportunity for Magda to catch up with some chores she had missed, Including laundering wet sheets. If she happened to be listening she would have heard that although I was clearly diligent in my learning, I hadn't learned to read Slovak probably because my use of accents was all over the place, I kept reverting to the French alphabet. Clearly I'd need more sessions having the words spoken to me, but nevertheless the picture book was keeping me occupied and I looked pleased with my progress despite not realising I was butchering the language.  It was Milan who arrived first. I was still sitting with my picture book and I looked suddenly embarrassed to be seen with it. I went oddly coy and quiet as he came inside.             

A very wet and now messy Seni Quatro diaper and pink side snap PUL pants this morning.

In the world of ABDL (Adult Baby Diaper Lover), many adults choose to be infants, seeking relaxation and escape from everyday worries. This is an exciting role-playing game in which participants become babies, feeling safe and carefree. One aspect of this choice is the use of diapers and wraps, which requires a special approach. To fully embrace this role, it is necessary to undergo toilet training. This new experience of free incontinence allows one to forget about hygiene concerns and trust their caregivers. This process is not only physical but also psychological, which is important to understand. To facilitate infant bowel movements, stool softeners can be added to formula to create a more fluid stool. This helps to better immerse oneself in the image of a baby, making the process even more realistic. A stool softener can only be used for a short period of time during the toilet training period and the transition to diapers; long-term use of a stool softener is harmful to health.