Story and Art Forum

When they got back to Madison's new room Camilla left quickly and it didn't take long for the bigger adult to return with Madison's clothes she had on yesterday at the store, now fresh and clean. Camila quickly undressed Madison much to the girl's protest which got her a slap on her bottom before being quickly dressed in her adult clothes.

Maddison was very worried as she was being taken to the room; she was deeply conflicted about what to choose. Her mind was in a state of chaos and confusion, yet she focused on the idea of being a big girl. She said: "I want to wear regular panties one more time—just one last time." She said this with a heavy heart, knowing Camilla wouldn't give her another chance to wear regular panties.

@Little Sherri if you start that rumor you’re looking for a fight with your wife. And you know how that will end. As far as the limit on trash day they need to get a life. Where I live if they started that crap with me I will haul it off to my bosses restaurant and drop it off there. As I will not pay extra for something that should not go up in price.

The end of Chapter 119, on the holiday road to Chapter 120   Chapter One Hundred & Nineteen: Part Ten The sliding barn door rolled open with a soft wooden hush. Steam drifted out first, thin and white, curling around the frame before disappearing into the warmer air of his bedroom. Then Paul stepped through with a large fluffy towel wrapped tightly around his waist, one hand holding the fold at his hip and the other brushing damp hair back from his forehead.   He was smiling before he fully realized it.   Not the guarded smile he used when someone asked too many questions. Not the polite one he gave strangers when he needed to look fine. This one came from somewhere simpler and far less defended, helped along by clean skin, warm water, and the lingering perfume of lunch still floating through the house. The whole hallway seemed to carry Lilly’s lemon shrimp angel hair pasta like a memory that refused to leave. Paul could still taste it faintly at the back of his mouth — the bright snap of citrus, the heat of Cajun seasoning, the silky sauce clinging to strands of pasta, the sweetness of shrimp sautéed perfectly until each bite felt almost unfair. After nearly two hours on the slopes, after beginner hills and controlled turns and one extremely unauthorized bump he was trying not to think about, he had eaten like his body had been hollowed out by snow and refilled with hunger.   He was full now. Nearly too full.   Comfortably full in a way that made his limbs feel loose and his thoughts warmer around the edges. If Lilly had put another pan of shrimp on the counter, he might have tried to eat every last one of them, right down to the bottom of the Pacific, assuming they were sautéed in that same sauce.   His smile grew.   Then came the knock. Soft. Two taps on the bedroom door.   Paul turned, the towel tightening under his fingers.   “Yeah?”   The door opened, and Lilly stepped in. She had changed out of the ski suit, now dressed in fashionable but functional activewear that somehow made mountain-house comfort look editorial. Sleek black leggings, soft winter-white long-sleeve top under a cropped quilted vest, hair pulled into an elegant loose ponytail, delicate gold hoops catching the light. She looked like she could host brunch, walk a snowy trail, take a Zoom call, or soothe a nervous eighteen-year-old into recovery space without changing outfits.   Her eyes found him, and her expression softened instantly.   Not pity. Not pressure. A smile. Small, warm, and disarming.   Then came the coo. It slipped into the room like sunlight through curtains, soft and sweet enough to make Paul’s shoulders rise before he could stop them.   “Ohhh, there’s my nice wittle boy,” Lilly said, voice gentle and sing-song, already changing the emotional temperature around him. “All fresh from his shower.”   Paul’s cheeks burned immediately.   “Mom…”   But the protest barely had shape. Because underneath the embarrassment, something else lifted in him. A little spark.   A traitorous anticipation.   Lilly’s smile deepened, not triumphant, not teasing, but tender in the practiced way she had learned to approach this part of him: never yanking him there, never making it a joke, simply placing the words down softly and letting his nervous system decide whether to come closer.   “My goodness,” she continued, taking a slow step toward him. “Full tummy, all squeaky clean, warm from the shower…”   Paul looked down because looking at her made the blush worse. Lilly lowered her voice into something even softer.   “And now all he’s missing is a big, thick, cozy, comfy dry diapee.”   The heat in Paul’s face spread all the way to his ears. His adult pride groaned somewhere inside him, hands over its eyes. But his body did not back away. That was the part he noticed.   The part he could not pretend away anymore.   After snowboarding, after lunch, after pushing right up against the edge of too much, the idea of being clean, dry, padded, and allowed to stop trying felt less like defeat than it would have yesterday. It still embarrassed him. It still made some part of him want to insist he did not need all the soft words wrapped around it. But another part of him heard Lilly’s voice and felt the morning settle. Little space. The trade-off. The recharge. Mindy’s schedule transformed into something warmer by Lilly’s hands.   Lilly held out her hand. Paul looked at it. His response was automatic. He placed his hand in hers.   The moment their fingers touched, his own uncertainty seemed to lose some of its weight. Lilly did not pull him. She simply led, and Paul followed her out of his bedroom, towel still gathered at his waist, damp hair cooling in the hallway air. Directly across the hall, Lilly opened another door. The room beyond was bright with day.   “Welcome,” she said softly, “to your little space room.”   Paul stopped at the threshold. For a second, he forgot to breathe.   He had known it existed. Sort of. He had seen pieces in Lilly’s careful planning, in the boxes, in the soft half-sentences nobody wanted to land too hard. He knew there were prepared spaces in the house. He knew everyone had agreed Utah was about stabilization, and stabilization meant routines, rest, recovery, and little space when needed. Knowing was different from seeing.   Daylight filled the room through sheer curtains, turning the pale walls gentle and cloud-bright. The color scheme was soft enough to feel almost weightless: creams, washed blues, touches of seafoam and white. Framed nursery art lined the walls — whales drifting through calm water, sailboats tilted beneath pastel skies, soft blue animals rendered in the kind of delicate illustrations adults bought when they wanted children’s things to feel expensive and peaceful at the same time. A chandelier hung overhead, crystalline and understated, catching the daylight in small glints rather than sparkling loudly. A pale rug spread across the floor, patterned with waves and friendly sea creatures that seemed to float beneath his feet.   Along one wall stood the crib. Longer than a normal crib. Wider too.   Paul’s eyes fixed on it before he could stop them. It took up more space than he expected, not quite dominating the room but declaring itself unmistakably. White rails, tall and smooth, a broad mattress dressed in soft bedding, a folded blanket waiting at one end. A plush lamb sat tucked in one corner, and a soft blue whale rested in another. The scale of it unnerved him precisely because it was large enough to make the question unavoidable.   Did they expect him to sleep in the crib?   The thought went through him like cold water. His grip tightened slightly around Lilly’s hand. The crib was not tiny. It was not decorative. It was not something he could dismiss as being meant for William. This room was across from his bedroom. His things were here. The scale had been chosen for him. The rails were too tall, the mattress too long, the bedding too deliberately soft.   A part of him recoiled.   Another part, quieter, remembered waking behind the safety rails that morning and feeling cozy before he felt ashamed. That made the crib even more dangerous. Because fear was easier when it was pure. This was not pure. The crib scared and invited him at the same time. And some small part of him wondered how safe it would feel if the world got too loud. Paul swallowed hard. Lilly did not explain it immediately, and he was grateful. He was not ready for an explanation that might confirm too much or deny too quickly. Instead, his eyes traveled the rest of the room.   More toys had been arranged than he expected. Stacking cups in soft colors sat neatly on a low shelf. Soft blocks were stacked beside them. A wooden bead maze rested on a small table near the window. A few plush animals watched from around the rocking chair, which was large and padded and clearly chosen for long, slow, calming minutes with someone held close. A small basket of sensory toys sat near the base of the chair. Board books filled a low shelf, though Paul noticed immediately that not all of them were for little kids; some were sturdy superhero books, simple nature books, picture-heavy books that could pass between little space and adult interest without demanding he choose one.   Then he saw his own things.   His DC superhero backpack sat on the floor near the rug, open and slightly slumped as if it had been unpacked by a child in a hurry or a parent who understood that perfect order made play feel staged. Batman toddler figures spilled out of it onto the rug: Batman, Robin,Batgirl, Nightwing, Superman, the Flash, Wonder Woman, Catwoman, heroes ready for missions that did not require embarrassment to enjoy. Nearby lay a stack of coloring books, crayons arranged in a plastic case, and his Batmobile positioned as if it had skidded dramatically into the room and parked near the whale rug. Paul’s chest tightened. Not badly. Just full. Lilly had not built a generic nursery. She had built a space that knew him. That made it harder to mock. Harder to reject. Harder to pretend it was only about making him small. Still, the crib held his eyes. Then Lilly gently turned him toward a part of the room he had not seen from the doorway. Near the far side, tucked at an angle beside a low cabinet and away from the immediate line of sight, stood a portable adult-sized changing table.   Paul’s blush returned with force.   It was sturdy and practical, wooden-legged with a lower shelf, topped with a thick navy padded surface. The size alone made his stomach dip. It looked like an examination table pretending to be gentler, high enough that Lilly or Bryan would not have to bend too far, long enough to fit him safely, simple enough to make the purpose unmistakable. His Safari changing mat was already draped over the top.   Waiting. Ready.   That somehow made it worse and better at once. Better because he would not be changed on the floor, or a bed, or some improvised surface that made everything feel like an emergency. Worse because the table made the need official. Prepared. A piece of furniture in a room. His eyes dropped to the lower shelf. Two neat stacks of Safari diapers sat fluffed and ready, their prints bright and familiar. Beside them was one stack of PeekABUs, folded thick and clean. An opened package of Rearz booster pads rested next to the stacks, a few already pulled slightly forward for use. Wipes, creams, and powders were arranged with Lilly’s careful touch: easy to reach, orderly, almost elegant if the purpose had not made Paul’s entire body flame with embarrassment.   Lilly squeezed his hand gently.   “There we go,” she sing-songed, her voice drifting back into that soft little-space rhythm. “Everything ready for that clean little tushie.”   “Mom,” Paul muttered, face fully red now.   But he did not pull away. Here, being changed did not have to mean everything was wrong. Paul looked at the table again. Then at Lilly. Her expression had changed slightly. The baby-talk warmth was still there, but beneath it was a careful waiting. She was giving him room to refuse, to ask for Bryan instead, to make a joke, to draw the line wherever he needed it drawn.   That mattered.   It made the next step possible. Paul released a slow breath, then moved forward. The towel remained tight around his waist as he sat himself carefully on the edge of the changing table. The wooden frame held steady beneath him, no wobble, no creak, just firm support. His ribs tugged when he shifted, and Lilly immediately placed one hand near his shoulder, not pushing, just ready.   “Take your time,” she said softly.   Paul nodded.   He lay back onto the Safari mat. The ceiling came into view. The chandelier. The pale walls. The edge of the crib in his peripheral vision. His heart beat faster, but not in panic. Not exactly. Lilly stepped beside the table and brushed damp hair away from his forehead.   “There’s my brave boy,” she whispered.   Paul closed his eyes for one second.   The adult part of him was still there, embarrassed, watching, keeping score. The little part of him was there too, warm from the shower, full from lunch, tired from the mountain, soothed by the softness of the room and the certainty in Lilly’s hands.   For once, neither side won. They simply existed together.     Paul opened his eyes again and looked at Lilly. Lilly looked down at him, and her face softened into that warm, open expression that made him feel both protected and completely seen.   “There’s my sweet boy,” she cooed, her voice lowering into the tender rhythm that always made heat rise to Paul’s cheeks. “All stretched out so nice for Mommy. You had such a big morning on the mountain, didn’t you? My snowboarding, brave boy, and then he got his tummy full with yummy pasta, and now Mommy’s gonna get him all clean and cozy.”   Paul stared up at the chandelier. His mouth opened like he had a comeback. Nothing useful came out. Lilly noticed. Of course she did. Lilly reached for the wipes.   “First we get you all nice and clean with the wipy-wipes,” she sang softly, narrating each movement without making him feel like a procedure. “Nice and gentle. No rush. Mommy’s got you. Clean, clean, clean for my sweet little lamb.”   Paul’s eyes closed.   The wipes were cool at first, then less so as Lilly worked carefully and efficiently, keeping the physical reality practical rather than exposed. She narrated not because he needed instructions, but because his nervous system seemed to follow her voice more easily than silence. Silence gave his adult mind too much space to panic. Her voice filled that space with rhythm.   “There we go. That’s better already. Such a good job staying still. Mommy knows it’s not your favorite part, but you’re doing so, so good.”   His tracker stayed green.   Paul knew because he peeked once.   Green.   The color embarrassed him almost as much as it reassured him. Lilly reached for the lavender lotion next. The scent bloomed softly in the room, floral and clean without being heavy.   “Now a little lotion,” she murmured. “Nice lavender for soft skin. We don’t want anything getting sore after all that riding and moving around, do we? No, we do not. Mommy takes care of her boy.”   Paul’s breath hitched at the words.   Her boy. He should have rejected that. He didn’t.   He let his head turn slightly into the changing mat, gaze drifting toward the open DC backpack on the rug. Batman figures spilled out in a little plastic rescue team. The Batmobile sat angled beside the crayons like it was waiting for him to finish and come play.   Play.   The thought sparked through the little side of him with sudden, bright excitement. Coloring books. Batmobile. Soft blocks.   Maybe Batman could rescue the whale from the crib. Maybe Long Knight could be the king. Maybe—   Paul caught himself. His adult mind stirred, startled and wary.   You’re eighteen. You’re thinking about toys. You’re excited about toys.   But the thought did not stab the way it used to. It still hurt. It still embarrassed him. But the shame had less room to expand because Lilly’s hand was steady, her voice was calm, and nothing about her face suggested he was ruined for wanting the room to feel good. She applied the rash cream next, careful and matter-of-fact, still speaking in that soft sing-song.   “Just a little cream so there’s no owies later. Mommy doesn’t want her baby getting sore. Nope, nope, nope. We keep everything protected, because my little boy had a big adventure and now he gets a big recharge.”   Paul’s lips twitched. It started small. A reluctant curve.   Then, as Lilly reached for the diaper and exaggeratedly puffed it open, the curve grew into something peaceful and almost goofy. Lilly saw it. Her whole face lit.   “Ohhh, I see that smile,” she cooed, leaning closer. “There it is. There’s my happy little snow baby. Does somebody know it’s almost playtime?”   Paul’s cheeks burned, but the smile stayed.   That was new. Not the regression itself. The lack of war.   Big Paul did not disappear all at once. He felt himself stepping back slowly, watching but not fighting, letting the smaller part come forward because maybe this was not a failure after all. Maybe this was how he got to snowboard for two hours and still have a body at dinner. Maybe accepting the diaper, the room, the voice, the pacifier waiting nearby, did not mean he had chosen to be helpless forever.   Maybe it meant he was choosing not to crash today.   Lilly reached across him toward the side of the changing table, where the Safari pacifier rested with its clip. The shield was pale green, decorated with little leaves and a smiling monkey at the center, the strap printed with safari animals and soft yellow letters. She brought it to his mouth.   “Here we go,” she whispered. “A little helper for those big thoughts.”   Paul hesitated for one breath. Then let her slip it between his lips.   The sucking began almost immediately. Eager. Automatic. The pacifier settled his face in seconds, turning the goofy smile softer, sleepier, younger. Lilly’s chest tightened with a tenderness she had learned to respect carefully. This was not about taking. It was not about making him less. It was about meeting the part of him that came forward when the world asked too much and making sure that part was loved without being allowed to swallow the rest.   “That’s it,” she cooed. “Such a sweet boy. Suck-suck and let all those big scary thoughts float away for a bit.”   Paul made a small sound around the pacifier.   Not a word. Not quite. Contentment, maybe.   Lilly slid one hand beneath his ankles, firm but gentle.   “Up we go, little lamb. Mommy’s just gonna lift these feeties for one second. There we go.”   She lifted him just enough to slide the thick Safari diaper underneath him, moving with practiced care and enough strength that Paul did not feel unstable. The diaper was wide and soft, printed with cheerful animals and leaves, thickened further by the booster pad Lilly placed inside with a purposeful little flourish.   “And a booster,” she said, voice brightening. “Because my busy baby had a big day, and Mommy wants no leaks, no fussies, no worries. Just cozy-cozy.”   Paul’s eyes half-lidded. His adult mind heard the words and should have cringed. Instead, his body relaxed deeper onto the mat. Lilly lowered his legs. Then came the powder. She shook it lightly into her hand first, careful and controlled, then applied it with the same non-rushed care, the lavender-aloe scent mingling with the clean nursery air.   “Fresh powder for my fresh little boy,” Lilly sang. “Soft and dry and comfy. Ohhh, you’re going to feel so much better, sweetheart. Mommy knows. Mommy knows just what her baby needs after all that big snowboarding.”   Paul giggled behind the pacifier. A tiny sound. Muffled.   Almost surprised out of him. Lilly froze for half a second, not because she was shocked, but because the sound moved through her so deeply she had to make sure she did not overwhelm it by reacting too much. Then she smiled.   “There’s that giggle,” she whispered. “I heard it.”   Paul’s eyes flicked toward her, playful now, embarrassed somewhere far away but not in charge. Lilly brought the front of the diaper up.   “Okay, sweetheart. Time to tape up this big, thick diapee.”   She smoothed the sides into place, then reached for the first tape.   “One.”   She fastened it securely, then leaned down and pressed a soft, exaggerated kiss to Paul’s left cheek.   “Mwah.”   Paul giggled again around the pacifier. Lilly’s heart almost broke with joy. She reached for the second tape.   “Two.”   Then a kiss to the right cheek.   “Mwah.”   Paul’s shoulders bounced with a small laugh, pacifier bobbing. The little side loved the pattern immediately. Big Paul noticed that. Big Paul let it happen. Lilly fastened the third tape.   “Three.”   Another kiss to the left cheek.   “Mwah.”   Paul made a muffled squeal that he would have denied under oath if he were fully adult. Lilly’s cooing grew even softer and more delighted.   “Oh my goodness, Mommy’s getting all the giggles now.”   The fourth tape came last.   “Four.”   She secured it, checked the fit with careful dignity, then kissed his right cheek one final time.       “Mwah.” Paul giggled openly this time, hands curling near his chest, pacifier moving in excited little pulls. Lilly clapped her hands together once.   “ALL DONE!”   Paul startled happily, eyes bright.   “My baby boy did such a good job staying still for Mommy during his diapee change,” she praised, beaming down at him. “Such a good job. And Mommy has a treat for her baby.”   Paul blinked. A treat. The word lit something playful behind his eyes. Lilly reached to the side and lifted the outfit she had set out earlier.   “New matchy-matchy outfit.”   Paul’s gaze followed the fabric. The top was a long-sleeved onesie in deep blue-purple, patterned with cosmic foxes drifting among planets, stars, and tiny constellations. The foxes curled, sat, and floated across the fabric like they were exploring space in secret. The trim at the collar and snaps was soft blue, matching the cuffs of the pants Lilly lifted next: loose, cozy bottoms with the same fox-and-stars print, gathered at the ankles and tied with a white drawstring.   “Look at these,” Lilly cooed. “Cosmic foxes. Little space foxes for my little space boy.”   Paul’s pacifier slowed.   His eyes widened slightly. He liked them. That was obvious enough that Lilly did not need him to say it. She guided the onesie over him carefully, protecting his ribs, sliding one arm through, then the other, smoothing the fabric across his chest. The cosmic foxes settled against him, soft and stretchy, and Lilly snapped the bottom closed without adding plastic pants over the diaper. It made the padding more present beneath the outfit, but the diaper itself stayed hidden under the onesie and soon beneath the matching bottoms.   “There we go,” she murmured. “All tucked in.”   Paul lifted one hand and touched a fox on his chest.   “Mmm,” he hummed behind the pacifier.   “You like the foxies?”   Paul nodded, small and eager. Lilly’s smile deepened.   “I thought you might.”   She slid the matching pants over his feet and up his legs, careful with the diaper bulk, adjusting the waistband so it sat comfortably without pressing. The outfit transformed him slowly from a boy on a changing table into someone warm, coordinated, and ready for the soft part of the day. The purple-blue fabric made his skin look warmer, his eyes calmer, his body less exposed to its own medical reality.   The little side was ready to play. Lilly could see it.   The way his gaze kept darting toward the Batmobile. The way his fingers flexed when he looked at the crayons. The way the pacifier moved faster whenever his eyes landed on the toy shelf. But Lilly had one more surprise.   “And,” she said, drawing the word out.   Paul looked back at her.   “Since somebody I know does not like wearing socks unless he’s wearing shoes…”   Paul’s eyes narrowed slightly around the pacifier, as if even little Paul recognized an accusation. Lilly reached below the table and lifted the soft booties. They were pale blue, plush and puffy, shaped like little sneaker booties without the printed designs, simple and clean in color. The cuffs wrapped gently around the ankles with soft Velcro tabs, warm enough for the nursery floor, structured enough to feel like footwear, but still cozy as slippers.   “I got you your own sneaker booties,” Lilly said. “No socks. See? Mommy listens.”   Paul’s face brightened. He lifted one foot slightly before she even asked. Lilly laughed.   “Ohhh, is that a yes?”   She slipped the first bootie onto his foot, then the second, fastening each carefully. The pale blue matched the trim of the outfit better than she had expected. His feet looked warm, protected, and ready to pad around the nursery without complaint.   “There,” she said, giving one bootied foot a gentle pat. “All cozy from head to toesies.”   Paul wiggled them.   The little side was delighted. The adult side, somewhere quieter now, observed that this was all very childish and also extremely comfortable. Lilly slid one arm behind his shoulders.   “Ready to sit up?”   Paul nodded. She helped him slowly into a sitting position on the changing table, giving his ribs time to adjust. Once he was upright, she reached for the Safari pacifier clip and attached it to the front of the onesie, the little animal strap resting against the cosmic fox print in a ridiculous combination that somehow made perfect sense.   “There we go,” Lilly whispered. “No lost paci for my little explorer.”   Paul looked down at the clip, then at his outfit, then at Lilly. Something open and grateful moved across his face. He leaned forward suddenly and hugged her. Not carefully enough for his adult dignity. Not small enough to pretend it was nothing. Just forward, arms around her, head pressing into her shoulder as the pacifier pressed softly between them.   Lilly caught him.   Her hands closed around his back with immediate tenderness. Paul tried to speak. The pacifier turned the words into soft, broken sounds.   “Tank oo, Mommy.”   Lilly closed her eyes.   For one suspended second, the nursery went utterly still.   “There we go,” she whispered. “Nice and slow.”   Paul’s pacifier moved in soft, steady pulls, the Safari clip now fastened to the cosmic fox onesie. The little green shield bobbed faintly with each suck, the monkey at its center smiling up at Lilly as if it had been appointed guardian of the moment. His cheeks were still pink, but the heat of embarrassment had softened into something drowsier now, something easier to carry. The new outfit had changed him in small, visible ways. The deep blue-purple onesie hugged his torso beneath the matching bottoms, cosmic foxes and tiny planets scattered across him like a night sky made for comfort. The pale blue sneaker booties warmed his feet, and the thick diaper beneath the outfit gave his seated posture that padded, secure weight his body had learned to relax into before his adult thoughts could fully object.   Lilly saw all of it.   She saw the young man, eighteen and wounded and trying. She saw the little side, newly awake and bright behind his eyes, already drifting toward toys and softness. And she saw the place where those two selves overlapped, not cleanly, not easily, but honestly.   “Ready to get down and play for a bit?”   Paul nodded around the pacifier.   “Mmhmm.”   The answer came small and muffled, barely a word, but his eyes had already moved toward the nursery rug where the toys waited in a quiet, irresistible scatter. Lilly smiled and helped him off the table with careful hands, guiding him down until his bootied feet touched the rug. He wobbled only slightly, the combination of post-slope tiredness, thick padding, and soft little-space looseness making his first steps less graceful than his pride would have liked if pride were fully in charge.   It wasn’t. Not right now.   Paul sank down onto the pale sea-creature rug with surprising ease, his legs folding underneath him before he shifted onto his padded bottom. The crinkle that followed was soft but clear in the bright nursery quiet. He did not look embarrassed by it. He was too busy reaching for the soft stacking rings arranged near the low shelf.   He took the biggest one first.   It was plush and fuzzy, larger than his hand, in a pale green-blue that matched the room. He pressed it against his cheek and rubbed slowly, eyes fluttering at the texture. There was no strategy in it. No performance. No need to make the action look older than it was. He simply liked the feeling. Lilly’s heart twisted with the sweetness of it. She picked up Batman from the changing table where he had been waiting and tucked the plush into Paul’s left arm.   “Can’t forget your brave buddy.”   Paul looked down at Batman, then leaned in and kissed the top of the plush’s head with the pacifier still in his mouth, the gesture clumsy and affectionate and so unguarded that Lilly had to blink once before the emotion reached her eyes. She bent and kissed the top of Paul’s head in return.   “I’m going to let you have some playtime alone, okay?” she said softly, keeping the baby talk gentler now, not wanting to crowd the space. “Mommy will be watching, and I’ll send Daddy up soon with some yummy juice.” Paul nodded, still holding Batman tight against his left side. His right hand had already abandoned the stacking ring and reached toward the action figures spilling from the DC backpack.   “Mmkay,” he mumbled around the pacifier.   Lilly stood slowly. For a moment, she did not leave.   She watched him begin. Paul spread the figures across the rug with total concentration, arranging Batman near the Batmobile, placing Robin beside a soft block tower, pushing Batgirl toward the wooden bead maze as if it had become a city bridge. The fuzzy stacking ring was no longer a ring but a portal, or maybe a cave, or maybe something only his little mind understood without needing words. His voice started beneath the pacifier, low and busy and mostly impossible to decipher, a story taking shape in fragments.   “Ba-man go dere… no, no, Wobin… big zoom… whoosh…”   Lilly’s lips parted around a breath that was almost laughter and almost tears. There was no shame in him right now.   That was the miracle.   Not because shame had been defeated forever. It hadn’t. But because, in this room, for this one stretch of daylight after snow and lunch and care, Paul was playing without the heavy shadow of being watched by the world. No school hallway. No leaked secret. No audience laughing. No courtroom in his own mind. Just toys, soft clothes, a pacifier, and the safe permission to let joy become simple. Lilly stepped backward toward the door. Paul did not notice. Or maybe he did and trusted her not to vanish. She left the door open ajar.   The nursery brightened after she went. The silence did not become empty. It became his. Paul sat in the middle of the rug and made the world smaller on purpose. The Batmobile raced first. It did not roll in a straight line because the rug was too soft, so Paul lifted it slightly and made the wheels hover just above the waves and whales, his hand guiding it through swooping turns. The sound came out around the pacifier in soft bursts.   “Vrrrrm… vrrrrmmm… Bat’bile go fast… no crash.”   No crash.   The phrase passed through him without becoming memory. He moved on before the bigger part of him could catch it. Batman needed a tower. The soft blocks were perfect for that. Paul stacked one blue block, then a yellow one, then a green one that kept tipping sideways until he scolded it under his breath. The tower grew crooked but tall enough for Batman to stand on top if Paul leaned him against the bead maze. Robin waited below, clearly in charge of rescue, while Batgirl drove the Batmobile in circles around the base because, according to Paul’s muffled narration, “she got da keys.”   The stacking rings became space portals. The sensory basket became a treasure cave.   A plush lamb watched from the crib, soon promoted to “big sheep boss” of the city. The soft blue whale became an airplane for reasons that did not require adult logic. Paul placed it on top of the biggest ring and moved it through the air, making a low whooshing noise, then stopped to press the whale’s soft side against his cheek just because it felt nice.   There was no pressure to do it correctly. No need to act like this was ironic. No audience requiring explanation.   The pacifier moved steadily as his story expanded. He shifted on his padded bottom, crinkling softly, then bounced once when Batman successfully jumped from the block tower into the Batmobile. He giggled at his own plot twist. Then giggled harder because the Batmobile toppled sideways and Robin landed face-first in the stacking ring.   “Uh-oh,” he said, delighted. “Wobin stuck.”   The little side loved consequences when they were plastic and fixable. He made Batman rescue him. Then made Batgirl rescue Batman. Then decided the whale had been responsible the whole time. By the time Bryan’s voice filled the space from the doorway, the nursery had become a bright, joyful disaster.   “Well, well, well,” Bryan said, warm amusement threaded through his softer, fatherly tone. “Where’s Paul, huh? Where’s my boy under all this toy avalanche?”   Paul turned around from where he sat in the middle of the rug. The pacifier bobbed. His eyes lit.   “Dah-ee!”   The word came out distorted and sweet, more sound than speech, but Bryan understood it immediately. He stood in the doorway holding Paul’s teal adult-sized bottle, bright orange juice glowing inside. Bryan had changed into soft house clothes now, a dark long-sleeve shirt and joggers, his hair still slightly damp from the morning. He looked tired, but the smile that crossed his face when he saw Paul was immediate and helpless.   The nursery really did look like a toy avalanche had struck.   Soft stacking rings were scattered near Paul’s knees. Batman figures had established territories across the rug. The Batmobile lay half parked against a pile of soft blocks. A few board books had been pulled from the shelf and abandoned open-faced near the rocker: sturdy pages full of animals, colors, and simple stories. A touch-and-feel book sat near Paul’s left foot. A padded farm book had somehow ended up beneath Robin as if being used for roadwork. The sensory basket was tipped over. Plush animals had migrated from their planned corners into Paul’s orbit. And Paul sat at the center of it all, cosmic fox outfit soft and bright, diapered bottom planted heavily on the rug, Batman tucked under one arm, looking completely, effortlessly happy.   Bryan felt something in his chest loosen.   He had seen Paul perform happiness. He had seen Paul chase adrenaline, sarcasm, charm, and normalcy with the determination of someone outrunning collapse. Bryan crossed the room and crouched near him, ruffling the top of Paul’s hair with one hand.   “There he is.”   Paul reached up immediately, then leaned forward and wrapped both arms around Bryan’s left leg. The hug was awkward from the floor, his cheek pressing into Bryan’s shin, pacifier squished slightly sideways. Bryan chuckled softly and let his hand rest on Paul’s head.   “Hi, buddy.”   Paul made a pleased hum against him. Bryan eased himself down to the floor, back against the side of the crib. He stretched one leg out and bent the other, settling in like the room had made space for him too. From there, he could see the whole nursery: the changing table, the toys, the crib, the rocker, the open door. He could also see Paul looking at him like Daddy arriving with juice had elevated playtime into a formal event.   Bryan lifted the bottle and gave it a gentle shake. The bright orange juice sloshed inside. Paul’s attention snapped to it. His eyes widened.   “Joo-see?”   The pacifier turned the word into a soft, wet little sound.   Bryan smiled.   “Yes, sir. Mommy made sure the house had a juicer, so Daddy’s been busy making you some yummy juice. This is carrot, kale and orange juice”   Paul bounced once where he sat.The crinkle was unmistakable.   “Wan’.”   “I thought you might.” Bryan held the bottle just out of immediate reach, playful but not withholding. “But I have an idea.”   Paul stilled, watching him.   “Why don’t you pick a book, and Daddy will read to you while you drink?”   The reaction was instant. Paul bounced again, more excited this time, then turned toward the scattered books with sudden purpose. His bootied feet pushed against the rug as he leaned forward, crawling a few small steps through the toy tornado until he found the one he wanted. It was a chunky board book with a bright, cheerful cover: Peek into the Farm. A layered duck shape sat cut into the front, surrounded by cartoon animals — chickens, goats, cows, horses, a dog, and flowers under a sunny sky. The book was thick enough to survive toddler hands and colorful enough that little Paul clearly considered it important. He grabbed it with both hands and held it up.   Bryan brightened. “Great choice. Come here to Daddy.”   Paul shuffled back eagerly, clutching the book against his chest. Bryan pulled a large pillow from beside the rocker and draped it across his lap, creating a soft slope. Paul understood immediately. He turned around and lowered himself backward with trust that made Bryan’s throat tighten, settling with his head and shoulders against the pillow, body angled comfortably across Bryan’s lap. The diaper beneath the cosmic fox pants crinkled as he got comfortable. Bryan took the book with one hand. With the other, he gently removed the pacifier. Paul’s mouth made a tiny searching sound. Bryan replaced it smoothly with the bottle nipple. The orange juice caught the light as Paul began sucking, his eyes already fixed on the book.   “There we go,” Bryan murmured, softer than normal but not as sing-song as Lilly. “Juice and story. That’s a pretty good setup, huh?”   Paul’s answer was a satisfied suck. Bryan opened the book. The first pages were bright and busy, farm animals arranged across green hills and blue sky, cutout shapes revealing bits of the next page beneath. A duck pond. A barn. A goat near a fence. Little rabbits at the bottom. Sheep gathered on one side with simple text about animals raised for wool, milk, and meat. Across the opposite page, chickens and geese dotted the grass, with a rooster standing proudly like he owned the farm. Bryan cleared his throat in dramatic seriousness.   “Welcome, everyone, to Daddy’s official farm tour.”   Paul’s eyes smiled around the bottle.   “First stop,” Bryan said, pointing, “the sheep. Now these sheep are very fancy sheep. They say…”   He dropped into a ridiculous sheep voice.   “Baaaa, I have an appointment at three and simply cannot be late.”   Paul snorted around the bottle. Juice bubbles shifted. Bryan grinned.   “Oh, you think that’s funny? Wait until you hear the goat.”   He pointed to the goat. The goat’s voice came out like an old man complaining about taxes.   “Maaahhh, who moved my fence? I had it exactly where I wanted it.”   Paul’s shoulders bounced. Bryan turned the page slowly, letting him look through the cutouts. The layered duck shape became part of the pond, then part of a new scene, animals appearing through the openings as if the book itself were a little world opening piece by piece.   “Here’s the duck,” Bryan said. “Very important duck. This duck says…”   He made a tiny, offended quack.   “Quack. Quack-quack. I asked for grapes.”   Paul’s laugh came around the bottle, muffled and delighted. Bryan kept reading, adding voices for every animal. The cow had a dramatic Hollywood accent and wanted a better trailer. The dog took his job too seriously and reported every chicken as suspicious. The rooster sounded like a Broadway singer warming up. The turkey was deeply offended by the month of November. Every page gave Bryan another excuse to be ridiculous, and every ridiculous voice pulled another happy sound from Paul.   Between pages, Bryan let himself look down.   Paul’s face had gone soft with contentment. His eyes followed the pictures. One hand rested near the bottle, not quite holding it. Batman was wedged between his arm and side. His bootied feet shifted occasionally under the cosmic fox pants, and the thick diaper crinkled faintly whenever he moved, no longer the center of anything, just part of the room’s gentle soundtrack.   After a few pages, Bryan paused.   He shifted his hand carefully to the front of Paul’s pants, giving a light, practical squeeze over the diaper to check. Paul looked up at him, more curious than embarrassed in this state. Bryan kept his voice soft and easy.   “Looks like I’ve got a wet wittle boy on my lap.”   Paul blinked. Then sucked his juice again. Bryan smiled.   “But you don’t need a change just yet.”   Paul seemed satisfied by that. So was Bryan. There was no crisis. No rush. No shame. Just information, acknowledged and released. Bryan turned another page.   “Now then,” he said, returning to the book. “Where were we? Ah, yes. The chicken council.”   Paul’s eyes brightened again. Bryan lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper.   “The chickens have called an emergency meeting because the duck is splashing too much in the pond.”   Paul giggled. The juice bottle bobbed. “There we go,” Bryan murmured, closer now, the words softening at the edges. “Juice all gone. Good job, buddy. You made that whole bottle disappear.”   The sound of the empty teal bottle shifted faintly in his hand, plastic tapping once against the floor as Bryan set it aside. Paul’s pacifier returned a second later, slipped gently between his lips before his mouth could search too long. The sucking started on instinct, slow and drowsy after juice and story and the heavy comfort of being held.   Then the image began to fade.   The farm book blurred first. The duck on the page became a smear of yellow and blue. The sheep dissolved into white softness. Bryan’s hand, broad and steady near the corner of the book, stretched and doubled like a reflection in moving water.   But the voices stayed.   They stayed clear for a few seconds longer, then began to echo as if the nursery had become a hallway, and the hallway had become a dream.   “Mommy,” Bryan called gently, somewhere above him and far away at the same time, “I think somebody wants to color next to Mommy and Daddy while we read.”   Lilly’s answer floated in, sweet as warm milk.   “Oh, does he?” she cooed. “Mommy would love that. Is my baby gonna color Mommy a pretty picture?”   Paul remembered being on the floor. Or maybe he remembered wanting to be on the floor.   Crayons. A page. The smell of wax.   His fingers moving slowly because his body was tired but happy. Bryan on one side, Lilly on the other, both of them close enough that the room felt padded by their presence. The world had narrowed to color and praise, to the soft scratch of crayon over paper, to Lilly’s delighted little gasp when he pressed blue too hard outside the lines and Bryan declared it “bold artistic interpretation.”   “Oh, look at that,” Lilly’s voice echoed. “So pretty, sweetheart, Mommy loves it.”   Paul’s own voice drifted through the memory, muffled behind the pacifier, the words bent and softened until they sounded more like feeling than speech.   “Tried… wanna snunggle Mommy.”   The room tilted warmer.   “Oh, sweetheart,” Lilly whispered. “Come here, then. Come snuggle Mommy. You can take a little nap right on Mommy’s lap.”   The last thing Paul remembered clearly was movement. Hands helping him. The soft shift from carpet to couch. Lilly’s lap beneath his head.   Her fingers threading gently through his hair.   Bryan saying something about putting the coloring book somewhere safe. The pacifier moving. His body melting sideways into warmth.       Then silence.     Total. White. Deep.       For a while, there was nothing.       No house. No voices. No thoughts. Only the safe dark beneath sleep. Then Lilly’s coo faded through it like a lullaby traveling underwater. “My sweet little lamb…”     And even that disappeared. For a long moment, the world did not exist.       Then sound began to seep back in. Tiny at first. Distant. Like ocean waves heard from inside a shell.     A door opened somewhere far away. Then came the faint roll of luggage wheels across hardwood, the little mechanical rattle repeating in uneven rhythms. A suitcase bumped softly against something. Another set of wheels followed. A zipper jingled. Someone laughed, airy and bright, the sound too alive for a dream but too far away to be awake.   “Happy holidays!”   The words bloomed through the haze.   Another voice answered, lower, familiar, full of movement.   “How was the flight?”   Then Bryan, clearer but still echoing, called from somewhere above and beyond Paul’s half-sleep.   “Charles, Robert, here, let me get those bags. No, no, I’ve got it. Come on, man, you carried half the airport.”   More wheels. A soft thud. A child’s excited gasp.   Then a voice cut through the layers, syrupy and firm in that rich Georgia honey drawl that could soothe a baby, command a room, and correct a grown adult without losing a drop of sweetness.   “Mya, no no, honey, let the little lamb rest.”   A pause. Then, warmer.   “William, come to Mama, sugar. Take your bottle and play nicely with Mya with the ball.”   The sounds grew louder, closer, rounder. Someone giggled. A ball bounced once, lightly. Plastic cards slid against each other. Mya whispered something too loudly. William made a pleased baby sound. A bottle nipple squeaked faintly.Then Lilly’s voice, closer than the rest, filled with pride she had tried and failed to hide.   “Oh yeah, he was out like a light. He rested his head right on my lap. I thought I was going to burst from wanting to kiss his cheeks nonstop.”   A woman laughed.   “Oh, honey, I know that feeling. Sometimes love just sits right in your hands and dares you not to squeeze.”   Sight returned slowly. Not all at once.   First, Christmas lights. They appeared as fuzzy bright dots floating in darkness, gold and white and green, soft halos trembling against the blur. Paul blinked, but his eyelids did not fully obey him. The dots stretched, sharpened slightly, then spread into the shape of the enormous Christmas tree in the great room. It rose somewhere beyond him, tall enough to belong to the house more than any single family, ornaments shimmering between branches, ribbon curling through green like gold riverlight. Then the long wall of windows beyond the living room, bright with afternoon mountain sun and snow-reflected light.   The world tuned in like an old television. Fuzz. Color. Shape. Sound. Clear.   Paul’s eyes opened further. He was lying sideways on the large couch in the great room, tucked into the soft center of the house where the ceiling climbed high above him and the wall of windows poured in blue-white mountain daylight. Christmas decorations filled the room without crowding it: garland along the mantel, stockings hung with careful spacing, the enormous tree glowing near the windows, wrapped gifts tucked beneath it, silver snowflakes catching light high in the branches.   The couch beneath him was deep and expensive and far too comfortable to encourage waking. A blanket lay over his body. His pacifier rested in his mouth, still moving in sleepy little pulls. Warm fingers moved through his hair.   Light. Slow. Again and again.   The touch had been there before his eyes opened, a constant soft line through the whole return to consciousness. On the left side of his vision, Lilly sat in one of the chairs near the couch, her posture relaxed in a way Paul did not remember seeing often enough. She held a wine glass by the stem, a pale pour catching afternoon light. Her hair fell over one shoulder, and her expression changed the instant she saw his eyes open. The conversation left her face, replaced by something bright and tender. Beside Lilly, in the other chair, sat Mama Kim. Kim looked like holiday warmth made human: elegant, composed, effortlessly Southern, a wine glass in her hand, her eyes soft with the kind of knowing that made people feel understood before they explained themselves. She wore mountain-travel layers with rich textures and tasteful jewelry, but her voice, when she leaned forward, was all honey.   “Well, look who’s awake,” Kim cooed, her Georgia accent wrapping around every word. “Bless his sweet little heart, our precious lamb’s come back to the pasture.”   Lilly laughed softly, not at Paul, but with the shared affection of it. Paul blinked at them, trying to gather enough language to respond. The pacifier made the effort feel too difficult. Across the room on the right-side couch, Mya sat cross-legged with William in front of her, trying very earnestly to entertain him with shapes, numbers, and color cards spread across the cushion and coffee table. A red circle. A blue square. A yellow triangle. Number cards lined up in a row that William had clearly already attacked once. Mya held up a green card and whispered, “This one’s green, Will, like Christmas trees,” then glanced toward Paul as if remembering she had been told to keep quiet. William, smaller and sleepy-eyed, clutched his bottle and watched the card with intense seriousness for two seconds before reaching for a soft ball near his knee. Mama Kim clicked her tongue softly.   “That’s right, sugar, gentle with the cards.”   Her voice stayed low enough not to disturb, but firm enough that Mya immediately corrected the leaning stack before it collapsed. Paul’s gaze drifted back toward Lilly. She smiled.   “Hi, sweetheart,” she said softly.   The fingers in his hair continued.   Paul’s eyes shifted upward.   The angle changed slowly. The world rotated from side-vision to sky. And there she was.         Savannah.       Clear as daylight. Smiling down at him. For one suspended second, Paul forgot to suck the pacifier. She was above him, close enough that her hair fell slightly forward around her face, radiant in the afternoon light from the windows. Travel had not made her look tired so much as real. Elegant but comfortable, dressed for the mountains in a way that still carried her own quiet polish, cheeks faintly flushed from arrival and cold air, eyes bright with something she was trying very hard to keep gentle.   Her hand was in his hair. Those were her fingers moving lightly through it.   Not Lilly’s. Savannah’s.   Paul’s sleepy mind tried to catch up and stumbled over too many realities at once.   Savvy was here. Savvy was in Utah. Savvy was touching his hair.   Savvy was looking at him while he lay in her lap with a pacifier in his mouth, tucked under a blanket, still dressed in cosmic foxes and soft booties and whatever version of himself had fallen asleep on Mommy and woken inside a room full of family. His adult side woke just enough to blush. His little side woke just enough to be delighted. Savannah’s smile softened as she saw the recognition reach him.   “Well hello there, cutie,” she whispered.   Then she leaned down and kissed his forehead. It was light. Barely more than warmth. But Paul felt it everywhere. His eyes widened. The pacifier shifted as he tried to speak, turning her name into something smaller, softer, almost disbelieving.   “Savvy?”   Savannah’s smile brightened, and the fingers in his hair did not stop.

Aww I love that!!!!!!!