Rainbow Diapers

Flashbacks are fun and Tommy and Danny met wow I wonder if Landon knows that good story

I like the terry pants in that link although they are spoilt for me by the 'fly' / front opening, I always just go over the top and it looks too adult with a fly

Chapter 8 And So… My New Life Begins   It had been a hell of a day! Recuperating from spending the night terrified in a park bathroom that we weren't even supposed to be camping out in, and the door not really sheltering us from what might be out there, and the smell of the place... the fear causing me to wet my pants in the night, and everything.... Then, my old school bully finds me at the library with her dad, and together they take us to their car where my mom is waiting for me, and they take us to their place, to make us... presentable to meet this person that seems bent on putting mom in jail for dad's death even though none of us knew where he was, and it was the police that turned up telling us his car was found, and later, they again turned up to tell us he was dead! We were evicted... and had no really good place to clean up, so of course Jennifer's dad thought we were dirty. And Jennifer, was rubbing it in my face the whole time she was getting me presentable--even causing me on purpose, to have an accident. I can't prove it, but I am sure it was on purpose. So when we found ourselves back in the playhouse, where Jennifer played house when she was probably younger than eleven, we found a place that was warm against the wind, and had bed and blankets. It was better than the bathroom we spent the night in the day before, but both mom and I... well, mine was still being finalized, but we would both have contracts the next day to work for this family. Mom had no choice. She couldn't leave the estate, it seemed, or she'd be arrested on the spot. I... I really had no choice either because it was too open. Mom was in no position to make demands. So... I sold myself into servitude for the next five years, to make sure they did everything they could to keep my little sister, Nadia and mom together. "Lena, honey," mom whispered when she settled on one of the beds. "I really wished you had not amended the terms of your contract the way you did. You are... putting yourself at their mercy." "I know, mom," I crossed my arms. "But Mr. Greivere had you in a position you couldn't negotiate out of. You had no way to make sure you kept custody of Nadia, and she needs you more than anyone would need their mom right now. I had to make sure you both stayed together, no matter what." Mom sighed. She knew I was right. "Still, Lena, it's not your responsibility." "Someone has to take responsibility," I muttered. My arms stayed crossed. A dusty miniature tea set sat on a tiny shelf nearby. The porcelain dolls lining the walls looked more alive than I felt. Their painted eyes seemed to track every twitch I made. Outside, wind rattled the shingles on the playhouse roof. Inside, the sharp scent of pine cleaner mixed with mildew. Jennifer's dad had insisted on spraying down the space before we entered. "Suitable for guests," he'd said flatly. His eyes lingered on Mom's worn coat. "That someone is not a fifteen year old kid, that needs her mother as much as your ten year old sister does," mom whispered back not in a power struggle, just stating facts. "Then who?" I demanded my arms tightened across my chest knowing I was the elder sister. I wasn't a baby anymore, even if I acted like it at dinner and peed on purpose, just to get one over on my old bully. A sudden gust ripped loose a shingle overhead and slammed it against the playhouse’s tiny window. We both jumped. Nadia whimpered in her sleep on the adjacent bed, curling tighter under the thin blanket. Outside, the wind screamed through the estate’s skeletal trees like lost souls. Inside, the mildewed air tasted thick and sour, coating my tongue. Jennifer’s father’s pine cleaner lingered, stinging my nostrils. It wasn’t a home smell; it was the smell of disinfecting something unwanted. Mom moved over to the bed Nadia was sleeping in, and she whispered to me. "I'll sleep with her tonight." I shook my head. "They'll accuse you to peeing the bed, mom. Jennifer told the whole school last year that I must pee the bed and wet my pants all the time because... I smelled. Even today, you heard her tell her dad I peed the bed at night?" Mom’s shoulders slumped. Jennifer’s cruelty wasn’t new—just amplified now that her family held all the power. That whispered lie about me wetting the bed at dinner? Mr. Greivere had barely glanced up from his roast beef, but Jennifer’s smirk had been razor-sharp. I’d flushed crimson, my fingers digging into my thighs under the table. A tactical accident, I’d told myself then—revenge served lukewarm and embarrassing. Now, in this drafty dollhouse, the memory curdled in my stomach. Still, I embarrassed myself on my terms, and not on her terms. She had wanted me to stand up, and trip on purpose... and I knew what she really wanted was for my skirt to fall in a way that her dad would see the wet panties I wore... wet because Jennifer wouldn't let me use the toilet in good time, and when she finally let me, I was leaking and had to sit on the toilet in a hurry to not cause a puddle. It was a rule, not to wet enough to cause a puddle at their house. They were very clear about puddles causing a punishing reaction. Wind surged again, clawing at the playhouse walls. Nadia murmured in her sleep, twisting the thin blanket around her legs. Mom smoothed her hair, her fingers trembling faintly. "We’ll find a way, Lena," she breathed, but her eyes stayed fixed on the rattling windowpane. Outside, moonlight sliced through the skeletal trees, casting jagged shadows that danced like grasping fingers across the floorboards. The scent of mildew soured the air, mingling with the cloying chemical bite of pine cleaner—a reminder that we were stains to be sanitized. A porcelain doll tilted sideways on its shelf, glassy gaze fixed on me. I wanted to shatter it. There had been a note on the playhouse when we entered. The floor was to remain puddle free. If once was found, mom and I would be punished, not Nadia. According to my contract, Nadia couldn't be touched by them, so mom would be punished instead for anything Nadia did. No puddles on the floor, and we are not to remove our clothes outside the little house. There was no toilet in the house, or anything else that we were allowed to pee in, so we'd have to go to the big house, if we wanted to use the toilet--I supposed. Mom sighed. "Well, they talked about getting us up early tomorrow, so we should go ahead and go to sleep, honey." But sleep wouldn’t come. The wind kept screaming outside, and every time a branch scraped the roof, Nadia jerked awake with a whimper. Mom whispered reassurances, her voice thin and frayed. I stared at the crooked porcelain doll, its glass eyes catching slivers of moonlight. It watched me. *Judge me*. My bladder throbbed—a dull, insistent ache I’d been ignoring since about two hours after we were put out here. Jennifer’s smug face flashed in my mind: *No puddles*. The threat coiled in my gut like barbed wire. I finally decided I had to do something so I wouldn't make a puddle. I walked to the door, and looked back a moment to see mom cuddling Nadia, and then I walked out through the yard in... actually pretty comfortable pajamas for the summer months of the year, and towards the big house. The yard's shadows everywhere made me feel like eyes were watching from the dark as I nervously approached the looming great mansion from behind. The moon cast sharp, jagged shadows of skeletal trees across the frost-rimmed lawn. My bare feet registered every icy blade of grass, every sharp pebble digging into my soles. Wind whipped my thin pajamas against my skin, each gust carrying the wet promise of rain. And underneath it all—that relentless, tightening ache. Hold it, I ordered myself, clamping my thighs together with each step. Jennifer’s voice hissed in my memory: No puddles, Lena. Not one drop. I nervously knocked at the back door. It was a large place, so I did wait a bit. No answer came so I knocked again. Then a third time. Still, no response. I wasn't allowed to pull my pants down outside, and I wasn't allowed to puddle inside the little house. I had to go in there, but no one was answering. I took a deep breath, and went to open the door, but it was--locked! I had to go badly. I was holding myself tightly as I tried to think of what to do. Maybe... maybe I could go to the bushes? But the rule was clear: no wetting outside the toilet. And I wasn't supposed to remove my clothes outside. I hesitated, biting my lip. Already I felt a dribble leak out, dampening my thin pajama pants. Hold it, I told myself desperately. Just hold it. The back porch light clicked on abruptly. Jennifer stood silhouetted in the doorway, her face a mask of cruel amusement. "Lena," she drawled, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Out for a midnight stroll? Or..." Her eyes flickered down pointedly to where my legs were pressed together. "...did you forget where the toilet is?" Her smile widened. "Too bad Daddy’s locked the downstairs bathrooms after hours. Orders." "I need to go," I told her. "What do you want me to do? No puddles and no pulling my pants down outside, so what?" "No one said you couldn't pee outside," she smirked at me. "Only that you can't take your clothes off out there like an animal. You pee the bed anyway, like all the time, so what would it matter if you just pee your pants in the yard?" Her smile was smug. Hold it. Hold it. My thighs ached with the pressure. Jennifer’s words hit like ice water—she wanted me to leak in front of her. To give her proof. Wind sliced through my pajamas, carrying the scent of wet earth and impending rain. A tremor ran through me, and I felt warmth bloom against my leg—just a trickle, but enough to stain the thin fabric. Jennifer shook her head at me. "I think you're lying, just to get inside, to maybe steal something? You know that's why dad wants you and your mom out in the little house at night? We don't trust you, yet." "I really have to pee, Jennifer!" "You peed yourself easily enough at dinner. I think this is a good punishment for that. You just stand there, and wet yourself... like the baby you are... right in front of me. Like a good little servant girl. I'll daddy you didn't pee on the floor in the house. After all, I'll have watched you pee on the porch instead!" Her voice was a razor blade scraping bone. Wind whipped the thin cotton of my pajamas, colder than any bathroom tile. The porch light carved deep shadows under Jennifer’s eyes, turning her smirk into something predatory. Downstairs bathrooms locked? Orders? Lies. This was her game—her rules. My bladder screamed urgency; my muscles trembled on the edge of surrender. A hot trickle escaped, soaking the inseam of my pants, proof warm and shameful against my skin. Hold it. Hold it. But Jennifer’s stare pinned me like a specimen. "I don't have all night," Jennifer warned me. "If you don't pee within the next minute, I'll tell dad you must have made a puddle in the house and tried to clean it before anyone noticed it, or worse, you pulled your pants down outside, like a dog!" My teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. Jennifer was deliberately twisting the rules—forcing me to wet myself while dressed, turning a natural need into humiliation. That familiar sting of helpless tears pricked behind my eyelids, but I blinked them back furiously. The cold porch boards beneath my bare feet felt like ice, amplifying the burning pressure deep inside. Another involuntary spasm sent a fresh wave of dampness spreading down my thigh; the patch was dark and unmistakable against the pale pajama fabric. "Okay...," she acted like she saw nothing. "No puddle on the porch, so you must be pulling your pants down in the yard," she started to close the door.... "Wait!" I choked out. My voice was barely above the wind’s shriek. "I’ll do it." The words tasted like ash. My bladder was a bursting dam—sharp agony radiating through my lower belly. My thighs were slick with dampness, muscles trembling uncontrollably. I couldn’t hold it. Not anymore. The warm stain spread downward, soaking the fabric clinging to my legs. She watched as the puddle spread at my feet, causing my pajamas to fully get wet. She seemed as if she could venture a taste or something, but had the discipline to keep herself still, not doing what she was tempted to do, whatever that temptation might have been. She looked into my eyes a few seconds after it happened, and just smirked. "Well, go to bed, then. If you change, then it will look like you peed on the porch, and then wet the bed, too. This way, I don't even have to tell him you peed on the porch. He'll think you had an accident, so you won't be in any trouble at all," and with that, she closed the door. I was frozen on the spot. My legs were dripping wet, and the wind was so cold that I was instantly freezing. I still had to go! She had tricked me! I hadn't gone... because I had been holding it for so long, and it wasn't all gone! Now, the accident I'd had wasn't enough. I knew... I was going to wet myself again, and badly, within minutes. I gathered myself together. I had no choice. She said one thing though... that I was allowed to wet my pants outside. No puddles and no pulling down my pants, and knowing I couldn't hold it anymore, I just started walking around the yard until I could get it to come out. It was slow going at first. My pajamas were already soaked and cold against my skin, making me shiver with each gust of wind. Every step was agony—the fabric chafed, the cold bit deep, and the relentless pressure built again, sharper this time. I moved away from the brightly lit porch, deeper into the moonlit yard where skeletal trees clawed at the sky. The wind carried the distant scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. Beneath my bare feet, mildew wet grass tickled my feet in dampness. Shadows pooled thickly beneath an ancient oak. There, hidden from the house’s judging windows, I stopped. My breath came in ragged puffs of vapor. Jennifer’s smirk burned behind my eyelids, her whispered taunts echoing louder than the wind. "Baby. Servant girl." I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on the searing ache in my belly. Slowly, tentatively, I relaxed. My body naturally squatting into a natural position for it, a new warmth blossomed low inside, spreading downward and around my bum in a hesitant trickle. It felt like betrayal—submission to her cruelty. But the relief was immediate, profound. The trickle grew steadier, transforming into a hot rush that flooded my pajama bottoms. Wetness streamed down my legs and pouring from my bum area because of the crouched position I was in, pooling warmly around my ankles before soaking into the thirsty earth below. No distinct puddle formed; just dark, spreading dampness merging with the dew-laden grass. The shame was a physical weight, crushing my chest. Yet underneath it, a bitter, molten defiance surged. Her victory. Not mine. Face red as a sunset, I walked into the dim house, looking at the floor, my pants soaked. "You... you'll have to wet your pants, outside, if you want to pee," I told mom. "The house is closed to us, and we are not allowed to make a puddle anywhere in the house, nor pull our pants down outside. I don't know how else they'd know either... unless they are going to check us in the morning to see if we are in wet pants...." Mom sighed, but nodded. "We'll figure it out, Lena." "I already did," tears sliding down my face. I peed my pants." Mom stared at my wet pajamas clinging to my legs, at the dark stain spreading across the crotch and thighs. She didn't recoil. Instead, a flicker of agonized understanding. "Oh, Lena," she breathed. Nadia stirred, whimpering at the sudden tension thickening the tiny space. "I... I just don't know what your rules are, but Nadia isn't to be touched, not if they expect me to sign the contract, so she can just wet the bed. It's what she knows and so we don't have to wake her and make it harder for her. Jennifer... wants me to make it seem I wet the bed. I guess you could fake like you thought I wet the bed in front of them, but I couldn't have you thinking I wet the bed. You had know the truth, mom," I whimpered a little and crawled up by her side, on the other side of where she was holding Nadia.   Mom's arms pulled me tight against her chest, my damp pajamas soaking into her threadbare nightgown. The mingling scents of mildew and urine filled the cramped bed. Wind screamed overhead, rattling the playhouse walls. Nadia shifted, murmuring, "Cold..." With a sigh, I went to the bed I was supposed to use, and I got the top blanket and put over her. "There you are, baby sis," I whispered in her ear. "Mama and big sis got you." I sighed. "I've so tired, mom," I yawned. "I... don't think bad of me... I... I'm going to pee in the bed on purpose, like Jennifer wants." "Lena, no!" mom whispered sharply. "Don't give her that victory!" "Mom, you don't know her. I have to. I want Nadia to have her mom, and the only way to do that, is to do what Jennifer wants. It will be in the contract. You heard us discussing it at the table. I have to do it every night... unless Jennifer changes her mind, so I might as well start. Besides, there is no toilet for me until they come to get us in the morning." I crawled onto the bed and laid down, my wet pajamas chilling against the thin mattress. The mattress crackled faintly beneath me—old plastic protectors Jennifer’s father must have installed. The scent of stale urine and pine cleaner sharpened. I pulled the thin blanket over myself, ignoring the damp spread beneath me. Nadia murmured again, snuggling closer to Mom. Wind clawed at the roof, a relentless scrape against the shingles. A loose nail tapped rhythmically, like a metronome counting down my humiliation.   The next morning came too early. Eloise entered without knocking, letting in a wedge of cold, damp air that carried the scent of wet grass and distant pine needles. Her sharp gaze swept the playhouse—lingering on the dark stain beneath me on the mattress, the soaked fabric clinging to my legs, the sour tang of urine thick in the cramped space.   Nadia huddled against Mom’s side, blinking sleepily. Eloise’s expression didn’t change—no disgust, no pity. Just… assessment. She wore a crisp gray dress, her dark hair pinned back severely. Her hands, clasped loosely before her, looked capable and strong. "Ms. Miller?" Eloise looked up at my mom. "The head maid is looking for you. I am going to watch your girls, Lena until her contract is made, and Nadia until you get off work this evening." She frowned slightly as she looked at me.   "Jennifer told the whole staff that you pee the bed at night, hon. Don't worry. We'll take care of it. That's part of my new job, change your pants and get you ready to meet your boss...." Mom looked hesitant to leave. "Lena..." "Go, Mom," I whispered, forcing a slight smile. "We'll be okay." Nadia clung tighter, burying her face in Mom’s shoulder so mom had to peel her off of her, and Nadia took her, trying to cuddle her to her side. Eloise waited silently as Mom reluctantly left, her worn nightgown vanishing through the door. The cold air she let in lingered. Eloise’s gaze returned to me—calm, penetrating. "Go ahead and undress, sweetie. I'll get your little sister undressed. We are all girls, so there is no shame. I used to wet the bed, at one time, too, so no shame." I stood slowly, my wet pajamas clinging cold and heavy. The air stung my skin. Eloise moved with practiced efficiency, helping Nadia out of her nightgown. Nadia whimpered, shrinking back against the wall.   "It's alright, duckling," Eloise murmured, her voice softening as she wrapped Nadia in a thin towel. "Just a quick wash."   She turned to me. Her eyes held no mockery, only a weary understanding that scraped raw against my shame.   "Off with them, Lena." She gestured to my soaked pajamas. My fingers fumbled with the buttons, numb and clumsy. The damp fabric peeled away, releasing the sharp, stale smell into the tiny room. Eloise didn't flinch. She handed me a rough towel.   "Dry yourself. Quick now. The cold bites."   The towel scratched my skin, but the friction brought warmth. Behind me, she efficiently stripped Nadia’s bed, bundling the wet sheets with mine. Nadia watched, wide-eyed and silent, clutching Eloise’s offered towel around her shoulders. "Mr. Greivere expects you in the dinning room in an hour and a half," Eloise said, her tone flat. "He’ll have you sign your contract at that time after you read through it, and then you'll be served breakfast along with your sister and myself. And Jennifer..., she asked me to give you a note that I had to promise not to read." I sighed and reached out for the note after I had put on the dress from last night and a clean pair of panties, that were thick and cotton like the day before that Eloise brought for both my sister and me to wear. The note read: *Hope you enjoyed your leaky night. Remember—no puddles means no leaks. Tonight, prove it.* It wasn’t signed, but Jennifer’s malice bled through every word. My hands trembled as I crumpled the paper. Eloise’s gaze lingered on it, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Your contract draft," she said, handing me a thick document instead. "Read it carefully. Jennifer's dad amended it with some stuff the princess wanted." "It better not have changed that Nadia is not to be touched, that mom and Nadia stay together, and that I get... my two hours," I breathed as I reached for it. "I didn't read it, so I don't know," Eloise frowned. "I was just told to give it to you so you had time to see the terms. He said he didn't want to waste time reading what you already understood, so he wants you to know what's in it before you meet." I frowned. "I see." I sat on the cold wooden floorboards, leaning against the damp mattress frame—going over the contract.   The drafty playhouse smelled faintly of stale urine—mine—mixed with mildew and the sharp scent of pine cleaner clinging to Eloise’s uniform. Nadia huddled beside me, shivering slightly in her clean underwear, clutching her doll. Eloise knelt by the small basin she’d brought, efficiently rinsing our wet sheets with cold water and a bar of harsh soap. The water splashed loudly in the quiet room. The contract had indeed been changed. Last night, he had told Jennifer that I'd get between seven and nine to "play," but it looked as though he had changed the time. He actually gave me three hours, from four in the afternoon until seven. Apparently, Jennifer wanted to oversee my baths at night, and the extra hour, was supposedly so I'd have time to do homework. It was... a trade, I supposed. I had to do my homework sometime, though in the contract, it also said that when I helped Jennifer with hers, I could do some of mine, then, too... whatever I was helping Jennifer with at the time. It said I will sleep where Jennifer wants me, too, so sometimes, that meant with my mom and sister in the little house as she started to call the playhouse thing that was now given to us as a room, but sometimes, it would also mean sleeping in her room, for which, we'd go shopping on this afternoon for... for a bed for me. I cringed. The beds in the little house were... well, they were beds, at least. No complaint there... but I shivered at what kind of bed she'd get me for her room. The door creaked open again, startling Nadia into clutching my arm.   Eloise paused her washing, her knuckles whitening around the soap bar.   Jennifer stood there, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy smirk. She wore riding boots and tailored jodhpurs, her hair sleek beneath a velvet cap.   "Morning, Lena." Her gaze raked over my clean dress, lingering pointedly where fresh panties peeked beneath the hem. "Sleep well? Or did you leak again?" I sighed. "I'll answer you after we sign the contract in thirty minutes, and not before. You don't own me, yet." Jennifer laughed softly, pushing off the doorframe.   "Oh, Lena. Always so prickly." Her smile didn't reach her eyes as she strode toward Nadia, whose small hand tightened on my sleeve. "And how's our little duckling this morning? Dry?" Her fingertip traced a deliberate path along the hem of Nadia's own dress that Nadia had changed her into. "Our governess has already taken care of my little sister, thank you," I said pointedly. "The contract says you are not to touch Nadia, so unless you want me to throw this away in the garbage because you can't be trusted, I advise you to step away from Nadia, right now! Even when you have control of me...." I raced through the pages to find where I had seen it, and shoved it in her face. --Jennifer will stay at least ten feet away from Nadia at all times except when Lena gives her permission for a special situation, or when everyone, the whole staff and family are collected together at meal times to eat. Breach of this condition is grounds for Lena to walk away from said contract while her mother's contract will still stay valid for the full five years.-- "There," I pointed to it and shoved the wording in her face. Jennifer’s smirk vanished. Her hand snapped back as if burned. She stared at the clause, her face paling beneath its usual porcelain perfection. The scent of her expensive violet perfume clashed violently with the playhouse’s lingering acrid tang.   Eloise remained utterly still by the basin, watching Jennifer with the unblinking focus of a hawk. Nadia pressed her face into my side, trembling. "... Given you had a right to change the contract while it was being drafted even after last night, I'll be adding one more condition of my own. When Nadia is in the little house, you are not to be. And if you expect me to be your little toy, I suggest you don't throw a fit over it with your dad. If I don't sign this contract, you don't get your little toy..., prin...cess....sss." Jennifer’s nostrils flared. The violet perfume turned cloying, thick in the cramped air. She snatched the contract draft from my hands, her knuckles white. "Fine." The word hissed between clenched teeth. "But remember—you’re signing away everything." She spun on her heel, boots echoing sharply on the floorboards, and slammed the door behind her. The playhouse shuddered. "I told you, Nadia. I won't let her near you, if I can help it, okay?" I said in a sigh of relief when she walked out with the contract in her hands. It didn't matter she had my copy. Mr. Greivere had to give me my own copy, or it wouldn't be a legit contract. One thing my dad taught me from all his years working from the time I was twelve. Kids need parents' consent to sign contracts, you read everything, and you have a right to request a copy and failure to comply meant the contract was voided. All terms that are not spelled out, are to be read in favor of the contracted party. I was so lucky... it was like daddy had anticipated something like this happening sometime in the future, and he prepared me for it. How boring it was when he taught me, and yet how valuable it was, now.   Eloise finished wringing out the sheets, hanging them over chairs to dry. The damp fabric smelled faintly of pine soap and bleach, masking the underlying sourness. Nadia’s fingers slowly uncurled from my sleeve. "Okay, girls," she said though when he looked at me, there was something different in her look. It wasn't malice or anything mean. I... I wondered if it might even be a tad bit of respect. I couldn't tell.   "It's time for breakfast. While we are in the yard," she hovered over Nadia. "Try to pee. You aren't allowed to pull down your panties out there, nor make any puddles in here or in the big house, but you are allowed to wet your panties in the yard, and you won't be allowed the toilet until after breakfast, trust me, little one." "What if she doesn't have to go?" I asked Eloise with a frown because I didn't like her even suggesting my little sister should just wet herself on purpose. Nadia tugged my sleeve anxiously. "Don't want to pee my pants," she whispered, her eyes wide with confusion and fear. "Don't want!" "I know, Nadia. I'm trying to find out what she'd do if you don't, honey." "It's not what I'd do. If I had my way..." Eloise murmured, her gaze darting toward the locked front door of the playhouse.   She paused, rubbing her temple. "But the rules stand. No toilets before breakfast for servants' children. It's... house policy." Her shoulders slumped slightly, the crispness of her uniform at odds with the weary resignation in her voice.   "If Nadia doesn't go outside, she'll likely have an accident during breakfast. And Jennifer will notice." Eloise met my eyes directly. "An 'accident' indoors—anywhere—means punishment. Jennifer wrote that clause herself yesterday." "Her punishment is NOT allowed to touch Nadia though. I will clear it up with Mr. Greivere, and if it says Nadia can be punished when she's not to be punished, I won't sign it." "No..., Lena. Not her. You. You will be punished for your sister's puddles. If you don't do as you are told, Nadia, your sister will have to wear diapers or worse!" Nadia started crying. "No, no, no, big sissy don't need no diapers!" "I know," Nadia patted her back and rocked her. "That's why you need to try to pee in the yard, so you don't have an accident in the house. If you can't... she has a right to punish big sissy for it." Eloise looked at me as she continued to explain. "They consider it neglect. Failure to supervise." She looked out the small, grimy window toward the main house. "Breakfast is formal—silver service in the dining room. If Nadia leaks... it'll be messy. Humiliating. For all of us." Her voice dropped lower. "Jennifer thrives on humiliation. I will be in trouble, too." I sighed. "She can pull up her dress," I told Eloise. "She's not taking anything off, if she holds her dress out of the way." Eloise nodded slowly. "The prohibition says disrobing. Holding her skirt... might pass." She lifted Nadia's chin gently. "You're going to have to be brave, duckling. Like your sister. Can you try?" I took Nadia's hand. "I'm doing my best. If Jennifer keeps me punished, I can't protect you when I can't see you. I need you to help me stay out of trouble when it is something you can control... like...," I sighed. "Peeing your panties, little sis. You'll have to do it." Nadia nodded, her small face pale but determined. Together we walked outside into the crisp dawn air. Dew clung to the grass, sparkling under the weak sun fighting through the storm's lingering gray clouds. Nadia lifted her skirt carefully, bunching the fabric around her waist. She squeezed her eyes shut, trembling. Nothing happened. "Can't!" she whimpered, shifting from foot to foot. Eloise looked at me and frowned. "You need to do it, too. Trust me. Besides if your sister sees you do it, she might feel better... that it's not... you know... naughty or something." I sighed. Eloise was right. I didn't lift my dress though. I just started to pee and even squatted so it would get on my butt, so Jennifer would be a little satisfied I peed in the yard like she wanted. "See, Nadia? It doesn't hurt." The warm wetness spread instantly through my clean cotton panties, soaking into the fabric and chilling against my skin in the brisk morning air. The damp patch darkened my dress from beneath, unmistakable. Nadia watched, eyes wide, then squeezed her eyes shut again. A moment later, a hesitant trickle darkened her own underwear, dripping down her legs onto the dewy grass at her feet. She whimpered softly. "Good girl. You want to keep big sis out of trouble as much as you can, baby," Eloise cooed at her. "Keep going, honey. All of it so you don't have an accident later, okay?" I held Nadia's hand as she finished, her legs trembling amid the wet grass. The scent of damp earth mingled with the sharp ammonia tang rising from us.   Birds chirped overhead—a jarring cheerfulness against our humiliation. Eloise scanned the mansion’s upper windows, her jaw tight.   "Hurry. Inside before we’re seen." She ushered us back toward the playhouse, her movements swift but tense. Nadia’s wet panties chafed against her thighs with each step; mine clung coldly. "We can hurry and get you two changed," Eloise pulled out some thing from behind the door I hadn't noticed before, two dresses. "Please change Nadia," I told Eloise. "There is no point me changing. Jennifer... she will know or there will be worse trouble. As long as Nadia is safe, that's all I care. Mr. Greivere thinks I pee my pants all the time anyway. I know Jennifer told him I pee myself at school all the time." Eloise hesitated, her fingers brushing the clean dresses. Nadia sniffled as Eloise gently peeled her wet underwear away. The cool air raised goosebumps on Nadia’s skin. “But your dress…” Eloise murmured, eyeing the damp stain spreading across my skirt. "That's the point," I blushed. "Jennifer will be too focused on my wet dress and will leave Nadia alone." Eloise nodded grimly. She quickly dressed Nadia in a clean, simple dress—soft blue cotton that smelled faintly of lavender soap. Nadia kept glancing at my damp skirt, her lower lip trembling. Eloise knelt, smoothing Nadia’s hair. "Your sister’s being brave," she murmured. "Just like you were."

Chapter Thirty-Nine: The door latched shut behind her with a soft metallic click, sealing off the empty childcare wing. Tuesdays and Wednesdays—her quiet days. Whitney leaned back against the frame, inhaling the sterile calm. The hum of the ceiling vent, the faint lemon scent from the cleaner. Small mercies, she thought. It wasn’t often the world gave her a silent room when she needed one. She exhaled slowly, thumb brushing the intercom console beside her desk. The red light still glowed. Not green—red. That meant help. Why’s he buzzing red? she thought, pressing the button. Paul’s voice filtered through the small speaker—steady but paper-thin. “Yeah, um… hey Whitney. I was wondering if you had any spare… Step— I mean, pull-up I could borrow? I forgot to pack a spare.” The tone hit her first—apology mixed with embarrassment. That soft, careful politeness she’d noticed the first time he used the annex. She remembered the cast list taped in the faculty lounge: Jem Finch — Paul Goldhawk. The school’s rising star, asking for help like a kid who’d lost a mitten. Whitney’s mouth softened into a sympathetic smile. If I had a nickel for every student who wanted to handle their own supplies but forgot the backups, she thought, I’d have a dollar by now. But her mind ticked to logistics—inventory. They were stocked with adult briefs, not pull-ups. She pressed the button again. “Hey Paul, no worries. I’ll be right in, okay? Are you alright for me to come in?” There was a pause, long enough for her to count three slow breaths. Then his voice again, small but brave. “Y–ye–yeah, I’m good.” Whitney straightened her uniform, smoothing the navy fabric down her front. Compassion and composure—always in equal measure. Inside, the air felt cooler. Paul sat on the edge of the padded table, a towel knotted around his waist. His Jaguar’s jersey was new—bright teal, expensive—and he looked up at her with that fragile half-smile people wear when they’ve already decided to apologize. “Paul,” she said gently, keeping her tone as even as a heartbeat, “what happened to your pants? Are they wet?” He swallowed. “Umm, no, they’re fine. My—uh—garment leaked a little onto my boxers. My jeans are fine. I just forgot to bring a spare. Could I maybe… borrow one?” “Oh, Paul,” she said softly, the voice she saved for toddler’s and first-years, “thank you for being honest with me. I wish I could say yes, but we don’t have your style in stock today.” His face shifted, confusion and hope tangling together. “Then that’s okay, I guess. I’ll just… put my jeans back on and go back to class.” “Sorry, can’t let you do that.” She kept her tone firm but kind. “School policy’s strict on this—if you need protection, we can’t let you back on campus until you’re properly covered. That’s my job. So why don’t you sit back for me, and I’ll just call your Mom—” “Step-mom,” he corrected automatically, his eyes flicking away. Whitney nodded. “Step-mom. Right. I’ll give her a quick call, okay?” He nodded faintly, shoulders sinking as he folded the towel tighter around his waist. Whitney dialed, phone cradled between cheek and shoulder, pulling up the policy sheet on her monitor just in case this turned into one of those calls. “Whitney, hi—oh my God, is Paul alright?” Whitney turned her chair slightly, looking through the glass partition toward the closed annex door. “He’s fine, promise. Just a hiccup with supplies.” Whitney explained the situation, careful to sound like procedure, not pity. Lilly’s sigh came through like static. “I’m at least two hours out. I’m so sorry for the trouble—really, he’s usually—” “It’s okay,” Whitney cut in gently. “If there’s ever a good day for a bad decision, this was it. You lucked out—it’s just me here today.” The tone lightened—until Whitney had to ask the next part. “Lilly, just confirming Paul’s still seventeen, correct?” “Yes, he’ll be eighteen December 5th” Lilly replied, guarded. “Why?” Whitney’s throat tightened; professionalism steadied her words. “Even at eighteen but especially for those under we need guardian consent to move forward. We’re out of his usual garments, and school policy requires students with his condition to remain protected while on campus. The only stock we have that meets that requirement are… adult disposable briefs.” She paused—long enough for the weight of the phrase to settle. “Do I have your permission to fit him with one so he can finish the day?” The silence stretched—three long seconds where she could almost hear the hum of Lilly’s car engine through the phone. Then a small, brittle yes. Relief and ache twisted together in Whitney’s chest. “Thank you. If you’d stay on the line a moment, I’ll let you speak with him before we proceed.” She muted the phone, stepped into the storage room, and exhaled into the chill. Rows of boxes—wipes, gloves, diapers, disinfectants—rose like towers. She wound her way to the back shelf where the plain white medical briefs were stored, each sealed in plastic. She took one, clinical and unbranded, and returned to the door. “Lilly,” she said, unmuting, “we’ve got his size in stock. I’ll make sure he’s comfortable and kept with me in the daycare center till  you come and pick him up. It’s quiet here—no foot traffic.” Whitney stepped back in, phone in hand. Paul looked up immediately, eyes rimmed red, towel still knotted at his waist. “Hey,” she said gently. “Your stepmom wants to talk to you real quick. I’ll step outside, okay?” He nodded. She placed the phone in his hands and slipped out, closing the door softly behind her. Through the wall, she heard fragments: “No… I can do it myself.” A pause. “I’ll be fine without one.” Another pause, softer. “Yeah. I understand. She’s a nurse. She’s a pro.” When the latch clicked, Whitney took a breath and stepped back inside. Paul was sitting upright, wiping his eyes with the corner of the towel. He handed her the phone without looking up. Whitney met his silence with quiet professionalism. “Same rules as before, Paul. Nothing leaves this room. Nobody knows but us, okay?” He nodded, barely audible. “Alright,” she said, voice steady. “Let’s make this quick. Lay back for me.” He hesitated, then turned and lowered himself carefully onto the padded table, eyes shut tight, face turned away. Whitney moved with precision—gloves snapping on, the faint rustle of packaging breaking the quiet. Every motion she made was calm, deliberate, the choreography of someone who’d done this a thousand times. “Just a lift of your hips,” she said softly. The diaper crinkled beneath him. The faint shake of his breath. Then stillness and the smell of powders filled the air as he felt it land on him like snow. Whitney adjusted the brief, secured the tabs, and pulled the towel back over him before stepping away to dispose of her gloves. “All done,” she said gently. “You can open your eyes.” Paul sat up slowly, staring at his folded jeans. “I don’t think they’ll fit.” Her heart tugged. “That’s okay. You’ll stay with me until your stepmom gets here. No one’s around today.” He nodded, silent. Whitney helped him gather his things—a small mercy in a morning already too heavy—and led him out through the back hallway. The sound followed them both: the faint, rhythmic crinkle of fabric and shame. She opened the pastel door marked Sweet Dreams. Inside, soft foam mats and oversized bean bags filled the small, windowless room. It was quiet. Gentle. Safe. “You can stay here awhile,” she said, tone light as possible. “I’ll be in my office. Just call if you need anything.” Paul nodded, eyes low, clutching his phone. He sank into a beanbag chair, phone in hand, somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief. Whitney closed the door halfway, watching him a moment longer—this tall, talented young man caught between worlds that didn’t fit him either way. She turned back toward her office, whispering under her breath, “Some kids wear it better than others.” Then, softer still—half prayer, half pity— “Poor thing. Adorable, really.” The hum of the ventilation system filled the quiet. A low, steady whisper that seemed to mock the rhythm of his breath. Paul sat still for a long time, staring at the wall across from him—the pastel mural of sleeping lambs and smiling moons. Everything about the room felt wrong. The low foam mats. The beanbags slumped in their corners like half-deflated clouds. The mobile that hung overhead, turning slowly in the air, catching the light like a clock he couldn’t stop. He tried to breathe evenly, but every exhale met the reminder pressed against him. The thick, unfamiliar bulk. It wasn’t pain, not exactly—just a constant, foreign pressure. The way it held him was too much and not enough at the same time: snug around his hips, spreading warmth where he didn’t want it. Every tiny movement made the material whisper, a faint plastic rustle that sounded, to him, like confession. He shifted in the beanbag, legs slightly apart, then closer together. No escape either way. The padding pushed back, unyielding. He felt absurdly large and small at once—like his own body had turned traitor. God, don’t move. Don’t even breathe. His face was burning again. The color had drained from him earlier in the nurse’s office, but now it came rushing back like a flood—hot and relentless. His pulse thudded in his ears. He could almost imagine it echoing through the vents, announcing to the whole school what he’d become. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing the image away: Whitney’s calm professionalism, the way she’d said lay back for me like it was the most normal request in the world. She’d been kind—too kind. That was worse. Pity was always worse than cruelty. He whispered to himself, barely sound, “I’m fine. I’m fine.” But even the whisper trembled. The diaper—no, brief—hugged him like an unwanted memory, a reminder of everything he’d been trying to outgrow. He couldn’t close his legs without feeling it push back. He couldn’t forget it was there. Every small motion made it crinkle softly under the fabric of his jeans, a noise that might as well have been a siren. A heat rose behind his eyes. He swallowed it down. You’re supposed to be past this. You promised Dad. You promised yourself. He looked around the nursery room—pastel walls, stacked blankets, the faint scent of powder—and thought bitterly: Perfect. A room for babies. Guess that fits now. He wanted to stand, to move, to prove to himself he still could. But the air felt heavy, weighted with the kind of silence that punishes movement. So he sat still and tried to remember what it felt like to be normal, just hours ago, before everything started folding in on itself. “Places, please!” Julia Douglas called from the front row, her voice a crisp Manhattan alto that bounced off the rafters. “And, remember, you’re in Alabama, not Brooklyn—let’s hear the accents soften!” On stage, Declan O’Shaughnessy leaned on the apron rail, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his Irish lilt a low counterpoint. “Alright now, don’t be gallopin’ through it. Let it breathe, lads and lassies — the rhythm’ll find you if you’ve the patience to listen for it.” Paul adjusted his script. Jem Finch underlined three times in pencil. The wood floor under his shoes creaked as he found his mark. Amber, playing Scout, was already in character—barefoot, confident, the kind of natural ease he envied. They started from the courtroom exchange. His voice came steadier than it had all week. Each line hit clean. Julia’s approving nod from the dark seats gave him a jolt of pride. When Declan called for a break, Paul exhaled and turned toward Amber. She was laughing with another cast member, the gold light from the high windows catching in her hair. He cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, after rehearsal… you wanna grab a coffee or something? Just to run lines—” Amber laughed, pressing a finger lightly to his lips in mock secrecy. “Shh. Don’t say anything yet, Jem Finch. I’ve got a call coming in.” The gesture was playful, harmless, but his breath caught anyway. Her touch burned and froze him all at once. For a second, the world narrowed to the faint press of her fingertip and the spark of embarrassment crawling up his neck. Then her phone buzzed. She turned away, her face brightening. “Marcus! Hey!” He watched her walk toward the exit, the sound of her laughter trailing behind. The moment fractured. He told himself it was fine. She had every right to be happy. Still, the small warmth spreading through him felt like betrayal—a reminder of how quickly his nerves turned against him. He slung his backpack over his shoulder, meaning to slip out to the hall and get himself together. He moved toward the hall, but before he could reach the door, Leo blocked his path. “Hey, Paul,” Leo said, flashing that easy grin that made everyone like him. “That courtroom scene you auditioned with I saw the tape. You crushed it, man.” Paul blinked, surprised. “Thanks. I thought it would have landed me the part.” “Same,” Leo said, tapping his temple. “Most people act. You live it. We should run lines together sometime, if you’re cool with that.” Paul hesitated. Leo was the golden boy— now getting Atticus despite the changes it still stung. Part of him wanted to say no, to guard the small piece of confidence he’d just found. But another part—the better part—wanted to belong. “Yeah,” Paul said finally. “Yeah, I’d like that.” They started talking. About acting. About technique. Leo listened—really listened. And for a moment, Paul forgot the clock entirely. By the time the third bell rang, his stomach dropped. “Crap. I gotta run.” “Go,” Leo said, laughing. “We’ll finish later.”   Paul sprinted through the hall, backpack thumping. No time to stop at the restroom. He had history next—and even though he already had enough credits to graduate, he wanted the letter award. Attendance still mattered. Showing up still mattered. He slid into his seat just as the bell finished echoing. Mr. Green was already at the board, scribbling notes about Reconstruction. Paul opened his notebook and tried to focus. But his body had other plans. A dull, persistent pressure. The kind he’d learned to ignore too long. He tapped his pencil, shifted his weight, crossed his legs under the desk. The minutes stretched. Each one felt longer than the last. Hold it. Just hold it. He jotted answers mechanically, eyes flicking toward the clock every thirty seconds. When the bell finally rang, he exhaled hard, almost dizzy with relief. He gathered his papers in a blur and made a beeline for the restroom. The staff restroom door shut behind him with a solid click, muting the world. For the first time all morning, he let himself breathe. The mirror caught him—hair mussed from rehearsal, sleeves rolled above his elbows, that new spark of self-assurance still lingering from the drama block. He almost looked composed. Almost. A faint damp warmth at his waistband reminded him otherwise. He sighed, disappointment more than panic. He’d used the Step-In more than he realized. Nothing visible, just that subtle heaviness that told him a change wasn’t optional. Alright. You’ve done this before. No big deal. Today he was calm, in control. He even caught himself rehearsing what he’d say to Whitney—casual, confident, no trace of awkwardness. He pressed the red intercom button beside the door. The light blinked once, steady. “Hey Whitney. Just wondering if you could pass me my changing supplies before next period.” “Sure thing,” she replied, cheerful as ever. “Give me a minute and I’ll bring them over. And congratulations, by the way! I heard from Mrs. Douglas—one of the leads, huh?” The compliment hit like sunlight through a cloud. His chest lifted. “Oh—uh, yeah. Jem Finch.” He could hear the pride edging his voice. “Hang tight.” He smiled after the speaker clicked off, warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with embarrassment. The nerves that usually made his hands shake were quiet for once. He felt older, steadier—like maybe he was finally becoming the person he wanted people to see. When Whitney appeared, she gave him her usual friendly nod and handed him his things “Thanks,” he said, meeting her eyes for a second before looking away, his face flushing but his confidence holding. He waited until the door closed again, then set the package on the counter and unzipped his backpack, reaching automatically for the spare pair he always carried. Habit. Backup. Control. His hand came up empty. He frowned, checking the next pocket, then the next. Pens. Scripts. Textbooks. No spares.The chill of realization swept over him. No. I packed them. I did. He crouched, rifling deeper through the bag as if sheer will could make them appear. Nothing. The hollow sound of the zipper echoed in the small room. Panic bloomed fast and bright. His heart thudded. He sat down too quickly on the padded table, the motion jarring, and felt it—the faint warmth spreading inside his boxers. He froze. Please, no. A tremor ran through him, shame climbing up his throat. The confidence that had buoyed him minutes ago vanished, leaving only the static rush of humiliation in its place. Then—hope. Whitney might still have extras. She’d said they were stocked today. He could fix this before anyone knew. He pressed the red intercom button again, his voice smaller this time. Time. Whitney’s voice filtered in from somewhere distant, soft but certain. “It’s time… Paul… hello? Can you put the phone down for a second?” Paul blinked, his focus returning as the animated blur on his phone resolved into a frame from Batman: The Animated Series. The glow from the screen cut a thin reflection across his face. When his eyes lifted, Whitney was there—half-crouched beside him, her left hand resting gently on his shoulder. The posture was professional, but the smile she gave him was warm and real. “Hey,” she said. “You drifted for a second.” He nodded, embarrassed, setting the phone down beside him. “Your stepmom’s on her way,” Whitney continued, keeping her tone calm. “About forty-five minutes out.”  Her gaze dipped briefly, not out of judgment but instinct. The dryness indicator on the brief was still soild yellow—unchanged. A quiet relief. She met his eyes again with a small, polite smile. “Thought you might be thirsty,” she said, lifting a small juice box from her hand. “It’s the only cold thing left in the fridge—unless you want a carton of milk.” Paul blinked at the offer. The normalcy of it disarmed him. “Oh. Uh, thanks.” He took it, turning the box between his hands. The straw crinkled faintly in its plastic sleeve. After a pause, his voice came out quieter. “Um… what if I have to use the restroom? Can I just take this off?” He said this carefully, like the word itself could burn him. Whitney’s posture softened. “You’re absolutely allowed to use the restroom, Paul,” she said evenly. “Nobody’s saying you can’t.” Whitney shifted slightly, keeping her tone level and kind.Choosing her words. “It’s just… since you already had a small accident earlier, policy says we play it safe especially if you make—a wet diapee—” Whitney stopped herself mid-word, her breath catching just enough to make the air between them change. The automatic childcare phrasing had slipped out before her brain could stop it. She closed her eyes briefly, steadying her voice. “I mean, if you need to go, then you can,” she corrected gently, forcing a calm tone back into place. “But if you can’t make it for whatever reason, then no shame. That’s what the brief is for.” Paul’s shoulders rose slightly, his face pink. He looked down at the juice box, then back up again. “I think… I’m not really thirsty.” Whitney smiled, keeping her composure. Her voice softened back into that practiced calm. “Dr. Rowe’s note says you need to stay hydrated,” she said, taking the box from his hand. She pierced the foil with the straw and handed it back, guiding it lightly toward him. His lips found the straw out of instinct. “That’s easier,” she said quietly. The tension lingered for a breath—then Whitney, searching for a lifeline, nodded toward his phone. “Is that Batman?” Paul blinked, caught off guard, and nodded. “Do you like Batman?” she asked again, her tone shifting subtly—half daycare warmth, half genuine curiosity. He gave a small nod, still sipping. “Yeah. Do you?” Whitney smiled, relieved to move the moment somewhere lighter. “I’ve been a fan for a while. I even hit the convention circuit for a few years—cosplay and all.” “Really?” “Yeah,” she said with a quiet laugh. “My Poison Ivy costume was kind of my favorite. For a second she could almost feel it again: the weight of the velvet, it wasn’t all about showing skin so much as showing confidence but the bare skin was a bouns. Then she caught herself, cheeks coloring faintly. “Anyway,” she said quickly, the professional tone sliding back into place. “Let’s just say it wouldn’t exactly fly at a school function.” Paul smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing. Whitney glanced at the beanbag beside him and lowered herself down onto it. “Mind if I join you for a bit? You’re watching Mad Love, right? That one’s my favorite.” Paul nodded and offered her one of his earbuds. “It’s just starting.” “Perfect,” she said, slipping it in. For a while, neither spoke. The faint sound of Harley’s laugh filled the pastel room as the episode played, blue light from the phone flickering across their faces. Whitney leaned back slightly, her expression calm and kind. This was a first for her, the first time somebody in a diaper in this room was somebody she could talk to about a thing she liked, it was sweet, weird but sweet. While Paul sipped his juice, shoulders finally relaxing.     The Range Rover door swung open with a soft mechanical hum. Lilly stepped out, the faint scent of designer perfume cutting through the mild autumn air. She looked composed—mostly. Her outfit walked the tightrope between elegance and erratic: a cream cashmere sweater layered under a tan wool coat, sleeves pushed up, gold watch gleaming. But her hair, loosely pinned and coming undone in wisps, betrayed how fast she’d been driving. Her heels clicked unevenly on the pavement as she grabbed her purse, phone pressed to her ear. “Whitney, hi—it’s Lilly. I’m just pulling in now.” “Perfect,” Whitney’s voice replied through the line, calm and steady. “I’ll unlock the door for you.” The electronic lock buzzed, and Whitney appeared, her expression composed but kind. “Thank you,” Lilly exhaled, lowering her phone. “Thank you for everything, really.” “No need for thanks,” Whitney replied. “He’s been fine. It’s all part of the job.” Lilly nodded quickly, still catching her breath. “Of course. I brought him some shorts to change into, so he’s not—” she faltered, “—so he’s comfortable on the way home.” “Of course,” Whitney said, her tone clipped but warm. “I’ll bring him right out.” As Whitney disappeared around the corner, Lilly took a slow look around. Lilly exhaled and glanced around while Whitney disappeared through the inner hallway. The space smelled faintly of disinfectant and something sweet—baby wipes, maybe. The pastel walls and soft floor mats made her think of her friends Kim and Mindy, picking up their toddlers from daycare. They’d text her photos sometimes—grinning, sticky-fingered little faces and backpacks with cartoon animals. That word—little—hung in her head, echoing too loud to ignore. Footsteps approached. When Whitney came back into view, she wasn’t alone. Paul walked beside her, holding her hand. Lilly’s chest hollowed. His appearance was… impossible to unsee. Nike sneakers, white socks, bare legs. His teal Jaguars jersey hung just low enough to brush the top edge of the adult brief puffing faintly beneath it. His backpack straps hugged his shoulders, the final touch to an image that screamed not high school senior, but first day of daycare. For a flicker of a second, something darker crossed Lilly’s face—the same sharp, cruel impulse that had cut through her in Target weeks ago. That bitter laugh, those….HER unkind words: “Look at him. Look what you’ve got now. A Big Baby Loser.” It tried to rise again. But it didn’t win. What came instead was pity—raw, choking, unfamiliar. Guilt, too. Because now, standing here, she wasn’t angry at him. She was angry at herself. Whitney let go of Paul’s hand as Lilly stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Not a motherly one, exactly. More instinct than choice—like he needed it. Like she did. Over Whitney’s shoulder, the sight of a plastic bag caught her eye—bright, cartoonish, unmistakable. The kind of packaging reserved for the toddlers who usually filled this space. Lilly released Paul gently, smoothing his hair. “You alright?” she asked quietly. Paul nodded, eyes low. “Yeah.” “Good.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of black mesh shorts. “Here, honey. You can wear these home.” For the first time that day, Paul’s face softened. A small, grateful smile crossed his mouth. “Thanks,” he said, stepping into the shorts. While he turned away to adjust them, Lilly crossed to Whitney, holding out the plastic package. “I wanted to thank you again,” she said, her tone a careful balance between gratitude and reprimand. “From now on, we’ll make sure there’s a bag of Paul’s Step-Ins here—just in case. We don’t need any more… accidents.” The way she said it was deliberate—too gentle, too motherly, like a disappointed mom correcting her toddler. Her eyes flicked toward Paul as she spoke, and Whitney caught the tone, that blend of intent and sympathy wrapped in the same breath. Whitney accepted the package with both hands, offering a practiced smile. The design was bright, cartoonish, almost playful. Detective Marty—a raccoon holding a cookie—beamed up at her. “These will make things a lot easier on all of us,” she said evenly. Then the masked slipped again for the second time today…. “And Paul, I have to say—these are some of the most precious prints I’ve ever seen.” Paul froze, the color draining from his face. “Uh… thanks,” he mumbled, uncertain whether it was praise or pity. Whitney nodded once more and stepped back. Now it was Lilly who reached for Paul’s hand—slowly, instinctively. It looked natural. No… normal. “Thank you again,” Lilly said, her voice softer now. “Anytime,” Whitney replied. As they walked toward the exit, Lilly heard it again—the faint, rhythmic crinkle that followed every step he took. A sound she’d once heard in grocery store aisles, in other mothers’ carts. But this one belonged to her now. So does that make me one? she wondered. The doors shut, sealing them in quiet. Lilly started the engine, hands steady on the wheel. She glanced sideways. “Paul,” she said softly. “ Is your…I mean are you….is your diaper still dry” He looked up quickly, startled by the question. “Yeah. I’m sure.” The Bluetooth console flickered, connecting mid-call. “—Well, bless your heart, sweetheart — that’s just wonderful,” came Kim’s voice, lilting and warm through the car’s speakers. “Looks like there’s still a little dry sunshine peekin’ through your day after all.”.” Paul froze. His breath caught in his throat, face burning. Lilly kept her eyes forward, voice even, confident. “Paul,” she said quietly. “There’s something we all need to talk about.” The car pulled out of the lot, taillights disappearing down the road.

“Mommy won’t force you to take your binky, but it could help you calm down,” Annie carried Kayla to her bedroom , put her to bed and covered her, “You need some sleep; tomorrow you have to go to school though.”