Critiques and Writer's Discussion

Ruby just blushed heavily while she was being wiped down and started to suck her thumb when saw the thick pamper next to her

I agree with Sofia, Why would you insult those poor peppers by mixing them with that nasty yellow thing?

Valid concerns, we'll have to see what comes here!  Thanks for the comments! 🙂 🙂 Kind of snorting too... they're kind of scary when they get angry! (I've had one close encounter with a bear, thankfully we both wanted nothing to do with each other! Scared me to death though!) <nods> Sofia will own that! Definitely much rather that!  Why would you do such horrific things to such glorious spice?!? Poor chile peppers...  Yummy!!! Thank you! 🍪 Day's not done yet... 😈 Thanks for the comments! 🙂

Last chapter for the day as I gear back up, this sets up what will be shared over the next two days.  Chapter Seventy-Two: Paul’s lungs burned. His ears rang. His vision pulsed at the edges, the world flickering like a bad signal. “I—” He coughed hard, water splashing between them. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to—” “I know,” Bryan snapped, then stopped himself mid-sentence like the word had cut him. His jaw flexed, throat working. “I know.” “I wasn’t trying to hurt myself,” he said hoarsely. He needed them to hear that. Needed it said out loud before his silence could be misinterpreted. Bryan nodded once, fierce. “I know that too.” He maneuvered them toward the shallow end, boots scraping against the pool floor until he could stand. He lifted Paul like weight didn’t matter, like none of this did, and set him carefully on the edge. Paul’s legs trembled violently the moment they left the water. Lilly was there instantly, wrapping a towel around his shoulders, then another—overkill, maybe, but she couldn’t stop—pressing her forehead briefly to the side of his head like she needed proof he was real and warm and breathing. “Breathe with me,” she said softly. “Just breathe.” Paul sucked in air that tasted like chlorine and cold and humiliation. His chest hitched, breath stuttering in uneven starts. “I just— I needed it to stop.” Bryan climbed out of the pool and crouched in front of him, soaking wet, shirt plastered to his torso. He took Paul’s face gently between both hands, forcing eye contact—not harsh, not demanding. Just present. “What needed to stop?” Bryan asked. Paul’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. Because the truth wasn’t neat. Because it was Amber. Amber’s laugh when they were twelve and dared each other to jump off the pier. Amber’s hand in his at Rachel’s funeral when neither of them understood grief but both felt it anyway. Amber sneaking him late night double fudge brownie shakes during late rehearsals. Amber’s mouth, warm and surprised and his for the first time when they kissed each other for the first time as teenagers in a summer fling that ended with a whimper instead of a spark. The girl he’d loved quietly, fiercely, for years. The girl he’d imagined growing into adulthood with—not loudly, not arrogantly, but surely. And now— Now she belonged to someone else. Now that future was gone. Not delayed. Not redirected. Gone. “I feel like I’m losing things before I even get to have them,” Paul said finally. His voice broke, the words scraping their way out. “I loved her,” Paul said finally, the words scraping their way out like they’d been rusting inside him for years. “Not in a… fantasy way.” His voice cracked. ” He swallowed. “When you grow up together and you think… maybe.” The silence around them tightened. “I loved her,” he said for a second time like trying to confirm the first time wasn’t a mistake, barely above a whisper. “And now she’s engaged and I’m—” His hand curled uselessly into the towel. “—I’m in diapers.” The shame landed heavy and ugly. Lilly felt it like a physical blow. Not because of the diapers—but because this was grief. Real grief. Romantic grief. The kind she’d never let herself imagine Paul having, because imagining it meant acknowledging how much he had to lose like she did once upon a time ago.  She crouched so they were eye-level, towel still wrapped around his shoulders like armor. “You didn’t fall behind,” she said gently. “You were held back. By things you didn’t get to choose.” Paul blinked at her. Bryan inhaled sharply. Because that—that—landed. It reframed years of distance. Years Bryan had chalked up to adolescence. Years where Paul had seemed capable but curiously stalled, brilliant but hesitant, emotionally young in ways that hadn’t fit the calendar. Bryan exhaled slowly, fighting the instinct to fix, to reframe, to minimize. “That hurts,” he said instead. “And it makes sense.” Paul shook his head, tears streaking down his face now. “It doesn’t. I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. I should be grateful. I should be—” “No,” Bryan cut in, firm but steady. “You’re allowed to mourn this. What you thought your life was going to look like.” He’d seen this before. When Rachel died, Paul had been small—but his world had collapsed the same way. His nervous system never quite stood back up. And now Bryan was watching it happen again. Different loss. Same fallout. “That doesn’t mean you disappear,” Bryan continued. “It means we don’t let this grief eat you from the inside out.” Paul nodded, tears dripping off his chin. “And it means,” Bryan added, “when it gets this big, you don’t go somewhere alone to let it out.” Paul looked up, guilt flaring. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.” Bryan’s mouth pulled tight. “That’s the part we’re changing,” he said. “I don’t want you protecting us from your pain.” Silence settled around them, thick but not empty. Paul’s tracker pulsed yellow. Then green. Lilly noticed, breath leaving her like she’d been holding it underwater too. “Come inside,” she said softly. “You’re freezing.” Paul let her help him up.   Paul’s feet left wet prints across the tile as they walked him toward the stairs. His diaper sagged heavily under the towel, swollen from the water, the weight undeniable now that he wasn’t buoyant anymore. He was acutely aware of it—of how exposed he felt, of how much he wanted to disappear into dry clothes and silence. Bryan noticed. Of course he did. “Hey,” he said softly, slowing them just enough to make Paul look up. “We’ll get you warm. Clean. Dry and Fed. One thing at a time.” Paul nodded, teeth chattering faintly. As they reached the base of the stairs, Lilly and Bryan shared a look. It wasn’t panic anymore. It was recognition. We’ve been here before, that look said. Just not like this. Bryan bent and scooped Paul up without asking. Paul didn’t argue. He went pliant immediately, arms curling inward, forehead pressing briefly against Bryan’s shoulder as if his body had decided the conversation was over for the day. Lilly turned toward the staircase, already reaching for the light. Telling the boys to take their time, she would start on a quick 1 hour stew seeing her Apple watch read 4pm on the dot this late Wednesday afternoon. And as they climbed, as Paul’s weight settled into Bryan’s arms and the towel slipped to expose the damp plastic beneath, something in Lilly’s chest tightened sharply— —and the world slid sideways.  They didn’t enter Bishop’s Gate Academy through the front earlier that afternoon. That mattered. Instead of the familiar wrought-iron gates and banners announcing fall productions and college acceptances, Lilly and Bryan turned down the narrower drive that curved toward the community preschool and daycare wing—a low, sun-warmed building tucked behind hedges and playground fencing, its murals of clouds and animals faded just enough to prove they’d been there a long time. They walked hand in hand. Not performatively. Not for show. Because if either of them let go right now, they weren’t sure the other wouldn’t drift sideways. In Bryan’s left hand—clutched tighter than necessary—was the black gym bag. Inside it, neatly stacked and still faintly chemical-smelling, were Paul’s new daytime diapers. The weight of the bag felt disproportionate to what it held. Bryan had carried camera rigs heavier than this. He’d hauled luggage across continents without thinking twice. But this—this felt like handling the nuclear football, the kind of object that could irrevocably alter a life if opened at the wrong moment. One mistake, his brain kept whispering. One leak. One rumor. Whitney was waiting just inside the entrance. As ever, she looked like calm had been tailored specifically for her—soft cardigan, sensible flats, hair pulled back in a way that suggested competence without severity. She lit up when she saw Lilly, stepping forward to wrap her in a brief, warm hug. “It’s good to see you,” she said quietly. “I’m glad you reached out.” Then she turned to Bryan and extended her hand. “Mr. Goldhawk,” she said, voice sincere. “I’ve been meaning to meet you properly.” Bryan shook her hand, a little stiff, still calibrating. Before he could say anything, Whitney added: “Your son is one of the most talented and resilient students I’ve seen come through Bishop’s Gate. Given what he’s dealing with, the maturity he brings to his work is… remarkable. You’ve done a very good job raising a capable young man.” The words landed cleanly. For Bryan, they bloomed into something like pride—sharp, aching, welcome. For Lilly, they hit differently. Because her mind didn’t go to rehearsals or accolades. It went backward. To the last time she’d been in this wing—standing near those same painted clouds—watching Whitney walk Paul down the hallway hand in hand, his jersey riding up over a pristine white diaper she’d just taped on him herself. The way his head had leaned instinctively toward Whitney’s shoulder. The way the room had seemed to accept him without question. Capability, Lilly thought now, didn’t always look like forward motion. They followed Whitney through the daycare. The room hummed with soft chaos—toddlers in socks and bare feet, blocks clattering, a caregiver kneeling to negotiate with a small tyrant over a stuffed giraffe. Bryan’s eyes flicked instinctively, cataloging. He could have sworn he saw a pantsless toddler toddling past with a diaper patterned almost exactly like the ones in his bag. He swallowed a laugh that came out wrong in his throat and told himself he was imagining things. For the sake of every licensing board in the state, he hoped someone got that kid some pants. Lilly didn’t notice. Or if she did, she didn’t comment. Whitney closed her office door behind them with a soft, definitive click. “Okay,” she said, gesturing them to chairs. “Let’s talk about Paul.” Bryan and Lilly explained. Not everything. But enough. The diagnosis. The escalation. The decision—effective immediately—to move from pull-ups to full daytime briefs. The 504 paperwork, already initiated, backed by Dr. Rowe’s documentation. Whitney nodded along, flipping through the papers with practiced ease. “We’re fully aligned,” she said. “The school will adhere to everything outlined here.” She paused, then looked up, eyes kind but direct. “My question is this: does Paul fully understand what this shift means?” The room tightened. Bryan leaned forward and unzipped the gym bag. The sound felt louder than it should have. He lifted out two sealed bags and set them gently on Whitney’s desk. Pre-School, the branding read in cheerful font above soft, cloth-backed diapers with hook-and-loop sides. “There are two more in the bag,” Bryan said quietly. Whitney didn’t flinch. She didn’t smile either—but there was no judgment in her expression. Just assessment. “I’m not surprised,” she said after a moment. “Given his Step-Ins condition’s over these last few days and weeks, this is a logical progression.” She hesitated, then added with a small, wry curve of her mouth, “I’ll admit—they do look more at home here than in a high school. But Paul has always had a… certain ability to carry the unexpected.” Pampered, her eyes seemed to say. Fragile. Visible. Lilly felt her stomach dip. “We want him to keep using the restroom,” Bryan said quickly. “Like he does now. That’s why we chose these—hook and loop. He can take them off, use the facilities, refasten. Dr. Rowe encouraged it.” Whitney nodded, then tapped her name badge lightly. “And that’s where I need to be very clear.” She folded her hands. “Once a student is prescribed briefs as their primary medical protection, and once they are placed under the care of school personnel—namely me—state regulations apply. My responsibility is his and the schools health and safety first.” Bryan felt like the floor dropped an inch. “What does that mean?” Lilly asked. “It means,” Whitney said gently, “that when Paul arrives wearing a brief, his first stop will be my office. We assess whether he’s dry—and,” she paused, choosing her words carefully, “clean—before the day begins.” The word landed hard. “If he signals the need to use the restroom,” Whitney continued, “and if the brief is deemed appropriate for reuse, he may remove it ,use the facility, and return to be retaped. But school and staff bathrooms will be off-limits unless accompanied by staff.” She met their eyes. “That staff will be me.” Lilly’s chest felt tight. “So… he can’t just… go,” she said quietly. “Not unsupervised,” Whitney replied. “The law is very explicit when protective garments are involved. Support is structured.” The silence stretched. Bryan nodded slowly. He hated it. He understood it. “I appreciate you walking us through this,” he said. “Dr. Rowe’s focus was on dignity.” “And so is mine,” Whitney said. “But dignity doesn’t mean risk.” She tapped the bag of diapers on her desk. They all knew what that meant. Whitney stood, opened the gym bag herself, and helped Bryan remove the remaining diapers. Then, just as methodically, she handed him back Paul’s remaining Step-Ins. The swap was quiet. Deliberate. Final. Pull-ups for diapers. Autonomy for structure. Whitney closed the bag. “We should loop in Julia and costume over the next week,” she said. “Discreetly. No unnecessary details. But enough to protect Paul and the production.” Bryan and Lilly exchanged a look. They were terrified. They trusted her anyway.   Back in the present Lilly slipped into the kitchen without announcing herself, muscle memory guiding her more than thought. The moment her hands found the counter, the tension in her shoulders loosened just enough to function. This was where she knew who she was. Work meant control. Control meant survival. She tied the apron tight, rolled the sleeves of her sweatshirt past her elbows, and reached for the Dutch oven. The cast iron landed on the burner with a dull, grounding thud. Olive oil followed — generous, confident. She didn’t measure. She never did when she cooked like this. The flame caught. Onions hit hot metal and sizzled, the sound sharp and alive, instantly changing the air. Garlic followed, crushed and fragrant. Lilly closed her eyes for half a second and breathed it in, letting scent anchor her when thought threatened to spiral. Beef next — cubed earlier, waiting patiently. It browned fast, caramelizing at the edges, filling the kitchen with a smell that meant home no matter where you were from. She propped her phone against the spice rack, angled just right, and hit record. “Okay,” she said, voice shifting smoothly into creator mode — warm, practiced, easy. “Tonight we’re keeping it simple. No overthinking. Beef stew. The kind that does half the work for you.” She stirred, wooden spoon scraping the bottom of the pot in slow, deliberate circles. The lid rattled softly as the pot breathed, low and patient, filling the kitchen with warmth that felt earned rather than forced. Lilly clicked off the burner and leaned her hip against the counter, phone still propped where it could catch the final shot. Steam fogged the lens. “And that’s it,” she said into the camera, softer now. “Feed the people you love. Feed yourself too.” She ended the recording and set the phone face-down, the creator slipping away as the woman remained. The rhythm steadied her. The phone buzzed. She tapped speaker without breaking stride. “Well hey there, sugar.” Kim’s voice rolled through the kitchen like something sun-warmed and familiar, thick with Southern Georgia vowels and the kind of cadence that turned everyday life into something worth listening to.  “So, Charles and I are just five short days away from wakin up child free and in the keys. Porr Savy couldn’t make it home so we’ve got Charle’s sister coming in from New Mexico to watch the house and kids for a week.” Lilly smiled despite the tightness in her chest. “Of course you do, honestly Kim if there’s anybody who deserves a month away it’s you, queen.” “And Savannah,” Kim continued, voice lifting, “that girl is glowin’. Internship’s official. Mindy’s already got her buried in case notes before she starts in December.” “I knew it,” Lilly said softly. “She earned that.” “She sure did,” Kim said. “Hard work’ll do that to a girl.” There was a pause — subtle, deliberate. Kim didn’t rush into what she actually wanted to know. “And how’s our Paul?” she asked gently. “Different,” she said honestly. “And… not. We made some changes today and this week. Big ones.” Bryan stepped into the kitchen then, fresh clothes, damp hair, the tension in his jaw softened but not gone. He leaned against the counter, silent, listening. “We tried helping him regress,” Lilly continued. “Like… intentionally. Structured. And we crashed. Hard.” Kim didn’t interrupt. “We didn’t hurt him,” Lilly added quickly. “But we didn’t help either. And that scared us.” “Well now,” Kim said slowly, voice steady as a porch swing, “if y’all didn’t trip at least once, I’d be worried you were doin’ it wrong.” Lilly exhaled. Bryan’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “That fear you’re feelin’?” Kim went on. “That’s love tryin’ to learn a new language.” Lilly swallowed. “Would you meet us tomorrow? Maybe Riverlight Commons? Shop a bit, compare notes… ground this.” Kim laughed softly. “Lord, I got errands stacked higher than my patience, but yes. William’ll be with me.” “And Paul?” Kim asked. “He needs to come,” Lilly said, firmer now. “Not the whole time. But he needs to practice being seen. Especially since Mindy has him moving to diapers full time, still encouraged to use the restroom but he could use the break if needed.” Kim didn’t miss a beat. “Then we’ll make it safe.” The call ended just as the stew settled into a slow, confident simmer. Later, plates were passed around the table—thick bowls, crusty bread, the kind of meal that didn’t ask questions. Paul ate quietly but steadily, shoulders relaxed, eyes half on the TV replaying a game he’d already seen. He didn’t linger after dinner. Just nodded, murmured thanks, and drifted upstairs. “He’s good,” Bryan said softly when Lilly asked. “Pampered. Dry. Knee-deep in saving the world or robbing a bank. Hard to tell with whatever is on his PlayStation”   Upstairs, right at the 7pm mark Paul rocked gently in Rachel’s chair, audiobook murmuring through his earbuds. John Grisham instead of homework. The fleece blanket wrapped tight. Fresh diaper. Sippy cup within reach. The pacifier bobbed in and out of his mouth — not required, not forbidden. Just there. When his eyes grew heavy, Bryan carried him for the second time in the day the short distance to bed, laid him down, and Lilly tucked the blanket around him again. “Night,” Paul murmured, already drifting. “Night, bud,” Bryan said. The light clicked off. The door stayed cracked. Downstairs, lights dimmed. The house breathed. Only then did Lilly guide Bryan down the stair and back into their bedroom, closing the door behind them with deliberate care. The room was dim, curtains drawn, the hum of the house muted. Bryan sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Lilly crossed the room, slipped off her robe, and climbed onto the mattress behind him without a word. Her hands found his shoulders. He inhaled sharply at first touch — surprise, then release. She worked slowly, methodically, thumbs pressing into knots that had formed not from strain but from vigilance. This wasn’t seduction. It was maintenance. Care. “You’re carrying everything in your back,” she murmured. “That’s not where it belongs.” He let his head drop forward. “I keep thinking if I don’t hold it, it’ll fall apart.” Her hands paused. Then pressed firmer. “You don’t get points for breaking yourself,” she said quietly. A breath left him that sounded almost like a laugh, almost like a sob. When she suggested golf later — casually, lightly — it wasn’t dismissal. It was strategy. She needed him regulated. Rested. Reminded he existed outside crisis.And yes — she needed space. When Bryan hesitated, concern flickering, she kissed the side of his neck, grounding him where words couldn’t. “I can do a morning,” she said. “I want to. And you need to remember who you are when you’re not in rescue mode.” He studied her face. Saw the truth there. “Okay,” he said finally. “Just… text me if—” “I will,” she promised. “Now go make the call.”   Hours later, Lilly slipped out the back door wrapped in a robe, the night cool against her skin. She settled beneath the pergola, bourbon over ice sweating beside her laptop. The canal shimmered under a full moon, quiet and watchful. Her screen glowed. A photo of Harley. Files. Documents. Timelines. One phrase in red, impossible to miss: Background Certified. Verified. Confirmed. Lilly took a long sip, chest tight with anticipation and fear in equal measure. She dialed. Harley answered groggy, confused—until recognition hit. Then the tone shifted, sweet and eager. Lilly didn’t let her finish. “Can you be ready for me to pick you up in thrity-five minutes,” she asked calmly, “for a one-time business proposal?” A beat. Then, bright and breathless— “Yes, ma’am.” Lilly closed the laptop slowly, eyes lifting to the moon. The table was set.    

Great stuff.  Pleasant surprise, wasn’t expected an update till the weekend.     I like the introduction of the sitter idea.  As played out in the chapter, and how I feel reading their efforts, the regression mode just doesn’t sit comfortably with Bryan and Libby doing it.  Felt that even before the awkward attempt here.  Even without the Amber news it would have been a fail I think. Fascinated to see how his relationship with Amber plays out.  She’s surely not out of the equation in some way.