Story and Art Forum

HELP! im 41, im not an electrical engineer.   i whole heatedly want to have one of these and try this. is there any way i could pay you to instruct me? this is not fantasy for me.tried hypnosis for so long and not achieving results.   please help

"You can make Mommy happy, just not like that. And yes, take care of you. Feed you, change your diapers, cuddle you when you're not feeling well. That's what I'm going to do. It's clear you can't take care of yourself, and your Father is almost always absent." She briefly considered trying to catfish or maybe even baby trap his father, so she could marry him and get guardianship that way. It would be easier to use her friendship with the local judge though.

I don't think of toilets or diapers as a choice between the "lesser of two evils" but diapers definitely win for pleasure, satisfaction, and convenience.

Matthew returned from the bathroom and found Astrid still asleep. However, they should join Kaiser and Julia at breakfast, so it was time to wake her up. “Miss Astrid,” he leaned down and addressed her in soft voice, “it’s time to get up. We will join my cousin and Julia soon,” the stench of urine hit his nose, and he realized what had happened. He hasn’t noticed Astrid going to the toilet since they met. Did she hold her pee intentionally when she talked with Julia about diapers? “You should change your clothes now,” he added, “do you want me to redress you or will you do it on your own?” he got curious about her attitude. … Julia calmed down in Kaiser’s arms and looked at him, “Kai, I’ve had a nightmare about miss Astrid. She was tied up and kept in a basement cell. What does it mean? Was she captured in the past? Do you know about it?” A cold chill ran down her spine while waiting for the answer. She desperately wanted a positive one. If Astrid was captured in the past, it was a kind of memory. If not, it was a terrible forecast.

Almost Christmas finds her caught between twinkling market lights and the quiet comfort of home, where a few carefully chosen decorations finally make the dark windows glow. There are short, ordinary trips that suddenly matter, piled into the back of a Mercedes station wagon that smells like winter coats and groceries, laughter warming the space between stops. And threaded through it all is a new rhythm she didn’t know she was ready for, a steady cadence that grounds her days and keeps her moving forward: jogging before dawn through wet streets, a hot shower that feels earned, breakfast that tastes like care, focused schoolwork that clicks into place, and tennis that leaves her flushed and smiling. It’s not loud or dramatic, just real, a life finding its pace at last as Christmas edges closer.   Chapter 144 – Almost Christmas “Amélie is supposed to be here already,” Sally said, half to herself, half to the echoing space of Zürich HB. She was wrestling two suitcases across the polished floor—one obedient, the other stubbornly wobbling—still riding the afterglow of Milan while bracing for Swiss December. The sports winter jacket she’d bought on a side street near Brera was earning its keep already. Practical. Warm. Unapologetically not elegant. Which felt right tonight. Theresa was behind her, shorter strides, one hand on the handle of her bag, the other pressed lightly to her lower back. “Jana is also waiting for me outside,” she puffed. “Hey—slow down, kiddo. My back just got fixed, remember?” “Oh—sorry,” Sally mumbled immediately, easing her pace, guilt flashing across her face.  Outside, the air was damp and sharp. A fine sprinkle misted the lights, turning reflections into soft halos. The black Range Rover was unmistakable, idling with quiet authority. Jana stood beside it, dressed—predictably—in black, one hand lifted in a crisp wave. And next to her— “Sally!” Amélie’s voice cut through the cold like champagne uncorked too fast. Parisian vowels, unmistakable. She swept forward and hugged Sally with warmth that ignored jet lag, luggage, and weather entirely. “Welcome back.” Sally laughed into the hug, then pulled back, blinking. She looked around instinctively. No green Ferrari. Theresa caught the look and smirked. “You go with Amélie,” she said, already stepping back. “Jana and I have a church singles group tonight. Yes, laugh all you want. See you tomorrow.” A wink. Gone. Amélie was already steering Sally toward the curb. “Come, come.” Sally stopped short. Parked there was a large, square SUV—silver, upright, unapologetic. It looked like it had opinions about weather and wasn’t afraid to express them. Sally frowned, curious despite herself. “What’s that?” Amélie opened the rear door with a flourish, already lifting a suitcase. “Ineos Grenadier,” she said, as if announcing a title. “The perfect winter daily.” Sally raised an eyebrow. “That’s… not subtle.” Amélie grinned. “Neither is winter. Hop in.” Inside, Sally blinked. The cabin was all clean lines and solid surfaces—leather seats, squared dashboard, visible switches that looked like they wanted to be used, not admired. It felt honest. Purpose-built. And somehow… elegant. “I parked the Ferrari for the season,” Amélie said lightly, pulling away from the curb. “She doesn’t enjoy salt. Or snow. Or restraint.” “This is better than a G-Class,” Sally observed, running her fingers over the stitching. “Exactly,” Amélie snapped her fingers. “And everyone has a G now. Boring. This is serious. Functional. And I don’t cry if someone scratches it.” They eased into traffic, Zurich glowing softly under the drizzle. Trams slid past like disciplined thoughts. Pedestrians huddled under scarves and umbrellas, December pressing gently but firmly into the city. “I’m staying at the Baur au Lac,” Amélie continued. “We’ll park there, then walk to the Christmas market at the Opernhaus. Your parents will join us later. Very cinematic.” Sally smiled, watching lights blur against the window. “I like your definition of cinematic.” Amélie glanced sideways. “And you,” she added, approving. “This look suits you. Informal. Grounded.” She gestured toward Sally’s shoulder. “And—mon dieu—that FREITAG bag. You kept it.” “Of course I did,” Sally said, surprised and pleased she remembered. “Geroldstrasse. With you.” Amélie nodded, satisfied. “Some things are worth keeping.” The Grenadier rolled on, steady and unhurried, through soft rain and early Christmas lights—toward markets, reunions, and the quiet sense that the year, at last, was loosening its grip. -- Amélie stopped so abruptly that Sally nearly ran into her. “No,” Amélie declared, lifting a wool sweater from a rack like a verdict. “This one.” Sally squinted at it. Deep green, soft-looking, understated—no blinking lights, no cartoon reindeer. Just texture and warmth. Tasteful. Suspiciously tasteful. “It’s a Christmas sweater,” Sally said slowly, as if saying it out loud might make it disappear. “Exactly,” Amélie replied. “But not a crime.” Sally laughed despite herself and took it. The wool was thick and honest under her fingers. She held it up against herself in the mirror of the small boutique window, rain-speckled and glowing with warm interior light. “I don’t think I’ve ever owned one,” she admitted. Amélie tilted her head. “You’ve also never lived anywhere long enough to need one.” That landed softer than expected. They stepped back into the drizzle, the street strung with lights that reflected in the wet cobblestones like spilled constellations. The air smelled of chestnuts and sugar and cold. Somewhere nearby, bells chimed—unapologetically festive. Sally slowed her steps. “You know what’s weird?” she said. Amélie waited. She was good at that. “I’ve never put up Christmas decorations,” Sally continued. “Not really. Florida… we moved. Everything was boxes and lists and timelines. Before that—” She trailed off, frowning. “It was always complicated.” Amélie stopped again, this time gently, and looked at her. “And now?” Sally glanced around. Windows glowed. Wreaths hung heavy with greenery. Candles burned bravely against the grey. Zurich was doing Christmas properly—quietly, seriously, like it meant it. “Now our house feels… empty,” Sally said. “Everyone else has lights. Ours is just… dark.” Amélie’s mouth curved, not unkindly. “Then we fix that.” They ducked into another shop—smaller, older. No plastic. No glitter. Everything smelled faintly of wood and beeswax. Hand-carved stars. Linen ribbons. Straw ornaments shaped like angels and bells. Candles thick and creamy, their labels handwritten. Sally touched everything like it might bruise. “These aren’t made in China,” Amélie said approvingly. “These are made by people with opinions.” “I like people with opinions,” Sally murmured, lifting a carved nativity figure. Simple. Unpainted. Just form and intention. “That one,” Amélie said at once. “You don’t negotiate with that kind of instinct.” They added greenery. Candles. A small wooden star meant for a window. Nothing loud. Nothing flashy. Things that looked like they would still matter in ten years. Outside again, the rain had slowed to a whisper. The cold crept in properly now, finding wrists and cheeks. Amélie steered them toward a stand glowing amber in the dusk. Steam rose from metal vats. “Vin chaud,” she announced. “Mandatory.” Sally wrapped both hands around the cup when it was pressed into them. The heat startled her. The smell—wine, orange peel, spices—felt like something ancient and kind. She took a careful sip. “Oh,” she breathed. “That helps.” “For the soul,” Amélie said, lifting her own cup. They shared roasted almonds dusted with sugar, fingers sticky, laughing quietly when Sally dropped one and mourned it briefly. Sally pulled her hood up, the new sweater tucked under her arm, decorations rustling softly in their bags. She looked around—at the lights, the people, the rain, the quiet insistence of joy. “I have so much to be thankful for,” she said suddenly. Amélie glanced at her, not teasing this time. “Yes,” she agreed. “And this Christmas,” Sally added, voice softer, steadier, “it’s the first one where I actually know what I’m celebrating.” She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. Amélie simply nodded, as if that made perfect sense. They stood there for a moment longer, steam curling upward, bells ringing somewhere unseen—two figures under winter lights, holding warmth, carrying it home. -- Sally stood just inside the restaurant doorway, the warmth fogging the glass as rain traced thin lines down the windows. Amélie was a step away, shrugging out of her coat, already chatting with the maître d’ in fluent, musical French. Sally lingered, phone in hand. She looked at the photo one last time before posting. It was taken an hour earlier at the Christmas market: her hood pulled up against the drizzle, cheeks pink from the cold, damp hair escaping stubbornly at her temples. In her hands, cradled carefully instead of displayed, was a small, handcrafted nativity—wood worn smooth, figures imperfect, human. The lights behind her blurred into soft gold halos, the rain turning the whole scene quiet and intimate, like the world had leaned in instead of shouted. No posing. No smile for the camera. Just stillness. She hit post. The screen dimmed as she slipped the phone back into her pocket. For a moment she closed her eyes, breathing in roasted spices, wet wool, and candle smoke that still clung to her jacket. “There you are,” Amélie said softly, looping her arm through Sally’s. “Ready?” Sally nodded, smiling to herself as they walked inside. Ready. -- First Christmas where I finally understand what I’m celebrating. Not the noise. Not the rush. Not the perfection. Just Christ. God choosing closeness. Light choosing to step into darkness. Tonight it’s rain, cold hands, warm wine, and a simple nativity made by someone who cared enough to shape it by hand. And somehow that feels exactly right. Grateful beyond words. #MiracleGirl #HandOfGod #Christmas #Christ -- They did meet—later than planned, as usual. Amélie had already ordered a second bottle of mineral water and was halfway through explaining to Sally why Zurich people pretended not to care about food while quietly caring very much, when Adrian and Bridget walked in, coats damp from the light rain, faces relaxed in that end-of-day way that meant they’d stopped working. “Sally,” Bridget said first, leaning down to kiss her hair. “You look… wintery.” “I take that as a compliment,” Sally replied. Amélie stood, warm and immediate, the way she always was with them. “You made it. I was beginning to think I’d have to adopt your daughter for the evening.” Adrian smiled as he shook her hand, then pulled her into a brief hug. “You already tried that once.”  “And failed only because you interfered,” Amélie shot back. The restaurant was small, ordinary by Zurich standards—wood tables, handwritten menu, the kind of place where nobody rushed you and nobody cared who you were. Middle-class, solid, quietly proud of its rösti and seasonal soups. Sally liked it instantly. They ordered simply. Soup to start. Shared plates. Wine, sparkling water for Sally, who insisted she could tell the difference between brands now. Conversation slipped easily into old grooves. Amélie and Adrian talked about work without naming it. Bridget asked about Amélie’s winter plans. Sally listened more than she spoke, watching the three of them together—how familiar they were, how unforced. At one point Amélie leaned back and looked at Sally. “You know,” she said, “your parents are very annoying.” Sally raised an eyebrow. “Why?” “They are happy,” Amélie said. “And rested. It’s unsettling.” Bridget laughed. Adrian pretended not to hear. Dessert was declined by everyone except Sally, who ordered a slice of pear tart and ate it slowly, content. Outside, Zurich moved at its usual measured pace, Christmas lights reflected in wet pavement, nothing dramatic, nothing loud. When they finally stood to leave, coats on, scarves adjusted, Amélie slipped her arm through Sally’s. “Opernhaus next,” she said softly. “We walk. We don’t rush.” Sally nodded. That sounded right.   -- That night, the Zürichberg house carried a different kind of glow. Not brighter—just warmer. The lights reflected softly off the windows, catching on pine branches and glass ornaments that hadn’t seen daylight in years. A few candles flickered on the sideboard. Outside, the drizzle blurred the city into watercolor. Inside, the air felt settled, held. “I think there are some decorations in the garage,” Adrian said, half-uncertain, watching Sally crouched by the side table. “Somewhere between the snow chains and the tire pump.” Sally smiled to herself as she adjusted the last sprig of moss around the small nativity scene. It was simple—hand-carved figures, slightly uneven, honest. She tilted Joseph a fraction closer to Mary, stepped back, then leaned in again to straighten the tiny lamb. “These are perfect,” Adrian added, more firmly now. “Much better than plastic angels with missing wings.” Bridget sat on the sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, wine glass balanced loosely in her hand. She didn’t interrupt. She just watched Sally with a quiet, aching fondness that had no need for words. After a moment, she spoke softly. “I think this Christmas means more to us now than it ever did.” Sally didn’t answer right away. She finished what she was doing, brushed the moss from her fingertips, and went to sit beside her mother. Without ceremony, she leaned her head against Bridget’s shoulder. “Tired?” Bridget asked, lowering her voice. Sally nodded. “Yeah. But I don’t want to go to bed. Not yet.” “Then stay,” Bridget said at once, slipping an arm around her. “There’s no schedule tonight.” Sally glanced across the room, playful caution in her eyes. “As long as Dad doesn’t mind.” Adrian looked up from where he was pretending not to listen. “No complaints from me,” he said easily. “I like having my favorite people in one room.” They stayed like that for a while—talk drifting, pauses stretching comfortably between sentences. Sally told them about Milan again, slower this time. About Erika’s face when she walked onto the terrace. About the friends who practiced their English with brave seriousness. About the Duomo at night, white and impossible, like something imagined rather than built. “She cried,” Sally said quietly. “Not loud. Just… looked at me like I’d fixed something that had been broken for too long.” Bridget squeezed her hand. Adrian nodded, absorbing it. “And the train?” he asked. “Still convinced it’s superior to flying?” Sally smiled. “I liked it. Watching the world change instead of skipping over it.” Adrian hummed thoughtfully. Then his mouth curved. “I also noticed the world apparently contains one extra suitcase on the return leg.” Sally groaned. “That wasn’t shopping. That was… cultural exchange.” “Ah,” Adrian said solemnly. “Italy is famous for that.” Bridget laughed, the sound light and full. Sally smiled, eyes heavy now, comforted by the ordinary rhythm of teasing and warmth. Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, the house held its light. And for once, no one rushed the night toward an ending. -- Eventually, the evening began to fold in on itself. It wasn’t announced. It simply happened—the conversation softening, pauses stretching longer, Sally’s head growing heavier against the sofa cushion. At some point her answers turned into murmurs, then into thoughtful nods that didn’t quite track the question. Bridget noticed first. “She’s gone,” she whispered, smiling. Adrian glanced over. Sally was curled slightly on her side, eyes closed, breathing slow and even, one sock half-slipped off her foot. Her parents’ voices had faded into a low, familiar hum—safe enough to sleep through. “Let her be,” Adrian murmured. “She’s earned it.” But later—carefully, gently—they woke her just enough to guide her upstairs. Sally moved through the house in that soft, half-dream state where everything feels padded and kind. The lights were dimmed. The elevator gently took her up to her apartment.   In her room, she changed without thinking too much about it. Jeans folded, t-shirt dropped into the hamper. Underwear off. She pulled on her sleep shorts and her favorite worn sleep shirt—the one that felt like it had already learned the shape of her shoulders. The bathroom light hummed gently. She brushed her teeth slowly, methodically, like it mattered. Flossed. Rinsed. Washed her face, cupping cool water in her hands and pressing it against her cheeks, grounding herself just enough to be present. Her reflection looked softer now, unguarded, the day finally done with her. She slipped a diaper out of the package and fluffed it, then lowered her shorts. She slipped it on with practiced ease and slipped her shorts up over it. On second thought, she lowered her shorts and folded them. She turned off the light and padded back to bed, the gentle diaper rustling between her legs. Outside, rain tapped faintly against the windows. The night was damp and cold beyond the glass, even if the house itself stayed warm. Sally pulled the light blanket over herself anyway—not for warmth, exactly, but for comfort. For the feeling of being tucked in from the world. She curled onto her side, one arm wrapped around the pillow, breath evening out almost immediately. Downstairs, her parents’ voices continued—low, calm, full of small plans and shared certainties about the coming week. Sally didn’t hear them. She was already asleep, carried there by safety, by gratitude, by a quiet joy that didn’t need words anymore. -- The alarm rang at five sharp, slicing cleanly through the quiet. Sally startled awake and fumbled for her phone, silencing it before the second chime could sound. For a moment she stayed still, blinking at the ceiling, orienting herself. During the night she’d kicked the covers off entirely, and now the cool Zurich air clung lightly to her legs, just enough to wake her fully.   She swung her feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her soggy diaper pressed between her legs, and she fixed her t-shirt around her waist. All right.   Jogging. Shower. Breakfast. Schoolwork. Tennis.   The list formed neatly in her head, a familiar comfort. She exhaled, steadying herself, already imagining the reward waiting later—lunch, maybe a short siesta, and a few quiet laps in the indoor pool. A good day. A full one. The bathroom routine was efficient, almost military in its brevity. Cold water on her face. Teeth brushed. Hair pulled back without ceremony. Just enough to feel human again. She untaped her diaper and rolled into a ball, wiping herself to feel clean enough for the moment.  Back in her room, she dressed quickly: sports underwear, black leggings, her yellow Nike sweater still warm from the radiator. She crossed to the window and pulled the curtain back a few centimeters. Grey. Wet. Honest Zurich weather. She smiled faintly and reached for her Gulfstream cap, settling it over her hair. The rain outside was light, more mist than rain, but she knew better than to underestimate it. She grabbed her jacket, slipped her phone into the pocket, and paused for a second at the door. “Let’s go,” she murmured to herself. The house was still asleep as she padded toward the stairs, moving quietly out into the morning—determined, awake, and very much alive. -- It was unapologetically dark outside. Not poetic dark. Not romantic dark. Just the honest, early-winter kind that refuses to pretend it’s morning yet. The streetlights still ruled the Zurichberg curves, casting long amber streaks over wet pavement. The city was stirring, but reluctantly—movement without enthusiasm. A neighbor’s Volvo SUV rolled past, headlights steady, purposeful. Somewhere down the hill, a bakery van hummed, its driver already halfway through a routine older than sunrise. Two electric scooters buzzed by, their riders hunched and brave and faintly ridiculous. And Sally—jogging. Her breath puffed faint clouds in front of her, rhythm settling in slowly. At first everything felt stiff: calves, hips, the deep muscles that still remembered months of learning how to move again. But after the first few minutes, her body began to cooperate, warming, loosening, remembering. She checked her pace on instinct, not looking at the app yet. Theresa’s voice echoed in her head, mild but firm. Take it easier, Sally. She had meant to. Truly. Slow jog. Gentle rhythm. One mile, maybe a little more if it felt right. But the app had started telling a different story lately. One mile had quietly become two. Sometimes more. Not out of rebellion—just because her legs kept going when her mind told them they could stop. Her hips protested softly, like an old warning clearing its throat. Her thighs burned—not sharply, not dangerously—but insistently. Sally noticed, adjusted her stride, shortened it slightly. “I’m listening,” she muttered under her breath, unsure whether she was talking to her body or to God. By six thirty, she was sweating freely now, hair damp, sweater clinging at her back. The final stretch home curved uphill, and she leaned into it, breath heavier, steps determined. The house was close—she could almost smell the warmth waiting inside. From the corner of her eye, headlights appeared. She glanced back, squinting through mist and rain. Black Range Rover. She smiled and checked her watch. Figures. The SUV slowed, matching her pace, and the passenger window slid down smoothly. “Need a ride, Princess?” Jana’s voice called out, bright with amusement. Sally laughed, breathless, keeping her stride steady. Theresa was behind the wheel, smiling that knowing, patient smile that meant she’d been watching Sally’s progress with both pride and concern. “I’m good,” Sally called back, shaking her head. Her ponytail flicked rain and sweat. “Almost done.” Jana raised an eyebrow. “Stubborn.” “Dedicated,” Sally corrected, grinning. “Suit yourself,” Jana said, already settling back. The Range Rover surged ahead with quiet authority, rolled to a stop by the gate, and waited as it opened automatically. Sally jogged past a moment later, crossing the threshold just as the SUV eased forward, tires crunching softly up the stone ramp. Theresa leaned out the window slightly. “Shower. Breakfast. Then you’re mine for schoolwork,” she called. “Yes, ma’am,” Sally shot back, saluting exaggeratedly as she slowed to a walk. She stood there for a second, hands on her hips, breathing hard, rain misting her face. The house glowed warmly ahead. The city behind her continued waking, indifferent and steady. Sally smiled to herself. Still here. Still moving. Still getting stronger. -- And that was precisely what her week in Zurich ended up being. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just right. The shower came first—earned, necessary, almost ceremonial. Warm water poured over her shoulders and down her back, carrying away the chill of rain, the ache in her legs, the lingering fog of early morning. Sally lingered longer than usual, letting the steam soften her muscles, letting the soap do more than clean. It felt like therapy disguised as routine. When she finally stepped out, pink-cheeked and relaxed, she wrapped herself in softness—comfortable clothes that didn’t ask anything of her. She almost slipped a Goodnite on but then thought better about it. She was in work mode.  By the time she padded into the kitchen, she was already smiling. Mia had laid out breakfast like a gentle ambush. Scrambled eggs, still glossy and soft. Sausages arranged neatly on a warm plate. Toast stacked with quiet pride. A glass of orange juice glowing like captured sunlight. Sally stopped short. “Mia… this is a feast.” Mia turned, wooden spoon in hand, eyes narrowing affectionately. “You ran in the dark. In the rain. You eat.” Sally laughed, dropping into her chair. “You know they’re waiting to steal me the second I finish, right?” Mia sniffed. “They can wait.” As if summoned by the word, Theresa appeared in the doorway, laptop under her arm, already mid-thought. “If she eats fast, I can steal her by—” Mia raised one eyebrow. Theresa stopped. Blinked. Then, wisely, changed course. “Coffee?” “Later,” Mia said firmly. “She eats first.” Jana looked up from her phone, where timelines and lists marched in orderly columns. “I respect this hierarchy,” she said solemnly. Sally grinned around a mouthful of eggs. “Mia, you should offer them coffee before they revolt.” Mia sighed, already pouring. “Fine. But she eats.” Theresa settled at the counter, fingers flying across her keyboard, reworking slides for Adrian’s online meeting. Jana sipped her coffee quietly, eyes flicking between her screen and Sally with that familiar, protective awareness. Sally leaned back in her chair, warm, full, clean, and—most importantly—unhurried. This was the rhythm she hadn’t known she needed. Not recovery. Not achievement. Just being held gently in place long enough to grow. -- It wasn’t worth detailing the intensity of the morning. If Sally wanted to close the year clean—really clean, with nothing trailing behind her into Christmas—then there was only one way to do it. She sat down, opened her laptop, and disappeared into focus. And she delivered. Otto finally accepted her economics essay without edits. That alone would have been enough. But then he paused, reread a paragraph, and looked at her over the rim of his glasses. “This is… publishable,” he said slowly. Sally blinked. “As in… for a school journal?” “As in,” Otto continued, “I have colleagues who would profit from reading your analysis. You’re thinking clearly. Independently. That’s rare.” Sally waited for the punchline. It never came. Otto didn’t joke when it came to mentorship. He didn’t flatter. His praise landed with weight—and stayed there. She moved on. She almost missed not having padding on. But she tried not to think about it. Olivia was less poetic and far more exacting. Financial problems came back with red notes and short instructions. Perfect means perfect, Sally. There is no interpretation in numbers. Sally corrected. Rechecked. Submitted again. Straight A. “That’s what I expected,” Olivia said simply, already moving on to the next item. Theresa, reviewing everything in parallel, found nothing to dismantle. No raised eyebrow. No pointed sigh. Just a small nod and a quiet update to Adrian during one of their overlapping work sessions. “She’s ahead of schedule,” Theresa said. “And solid.” Adrian nodded once, the faintest smile touching his mouth before he returned to his screen. Theresa noticed it anyway. Later in the morning, Bridget appeared. Not rushing. Not drained. Just… present. She brought her coffee into Adrian’s study and settled beside Sally, who had been given a cleared desk by one of the tall windows. Light spilled across old wood and new notebooks. It felt earned. “I’m a lot better,” Bridget said quietly. “The doctor sort of confirmed what we already knew. This year took its toll.” Sally looked up. “You scared me a bit.” Bridget reached out and squeezed her hand. “I know. I’m sorry.” She took a sip of coffee. “It’s menopause. Intense year. No mystery. I’m scheduled for a full check next week.” Sally considered this carefully, then grinned. “So… I got an old mom.” Bridget laughed, but Adrian looked up sharply from his conversation with Theresa. “I resent that,” he said, voice warm but mock-stern. “I married a young woman. She’s in her forties. I’m the old one here. I’m almost sixty.” Bridget turned to him, unimpressed. “You are fifty-seven. I am forty-seven. Let’s not twist time for vanity.” Theresa snorted before she could stop herself. Sally leaned back in her chair, smiling, surrounded by work done well, adults who showed up, and a house that felt steady again. For the first time all year, she wasn’t catching up. She was finishing strong. -- Sally glanced at her watch and leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms overhead. “Well,” she said lightly, “since everyone seems wildly optimistic about my productivity today… may I head out and shoot some tennis balls? Before my brain melts.” Bridget smiled into her coffee. Theresa didn’t even look up from her tablet, already nodding approval. “Go,” Theresa said. “Movement is allowed. Overuse is not.” Adrian looked up from his desk. “Mind if I join you?” Sally blinked. Once. Twice. “You play?” she asked, genuinely perplexed. Adrian raised an eyebrow. “I own two tennis courts. One indoor. One outdoor. Did you think they were decorative?” Sally let out a small, awkward laugh and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve just… never seen you play.” “That’s fair,” Adrian conceded, standing. “I’m probably rusty. But I can still swing a racquet without injuring myself. Most days.” Sally grinned, already imagining it. “Okay,” she said. “But full disclosure—I’m competitive.” Adrian picked up a jacket, smiling. “Good. That means I won’t have to pretend.” She laughed as they headed toward the court. “Well then,” she said, grabbing her racquet, “you might as well teach me how to lose.” Adrian chuckled. “Careful what you wish for, Fräulein Weiss.” -- They met again twenty minutes later, as agreed. Sally came down the hallway first, already in her short tennis outfit, legs bare despite the season, racquet slung casually over her shoulder. She had bundled her winter sports jacket under one arm for the short walk to the court, hair pulled into a practical ponytail, cheeks already pink with anticipation. Adrian appeared a moment later—empty-handed, no jacket, sleeves casually rolled. Sally stopped short. “You’re not wearing a coat.” He smiled, entirely unbothered. “Indoor court. Heated. Roberto turned it on.” She squinted at him. “You planned this.” “He’s had twenty minutes. It’d better be on,” he replied serenely. They walked side by side through the quiet house, the sound of their steps soft against stone. Sally tugged her jacket tighter around herself. “Show-off,” she muttered. “Efficient,” he corrected. Inside the tennis court, warmth wrapped around them instantly—clean, controlled heat, the faint scent of concrete and warm air. The lights hummed softly overhead. Sally peeled off her jacket and draped it over a bench, bouncing once on her toes. Adrian stretched his shoulders, rolled his neck. “All right. Warm-up first. No heroics.” “Wasn’t planning any,” Sally said innocently, already twirling her racquet. They started slow. Gentle rallies. Easy forehands, relaxed backhands. The sound of the ball echoed rhythmically—thock, thock—steady and unhurried. Sally’s body fell into it quickly. The movements were familiar now, no longer cautious. Her feet adjusted automatically. Her shoulders rotated smoothly. She breathed evenly. “Good,” Adrian called. “Stay light on your feet. Don’t lock your knees.” She nodded, returned another clean shot. “Earlier preparation,” he added. “Think ahead, not late.” “Yes, coach,” she teased. He smirked. “You’ll thank me later.” They picked up the pace gradually. Adrian fed her consistent, forgiving balls, placing them just far enough to make her move but never so far she had to strain. When she overreached, he corrected gently. “Core, Sally. Not just arm.” She tried again. Better. “There you go.” Her shots grew stronger. More confident. Sweat gathered at her temples. Her breathing deepened—not labored, just engaged. “Okay,” Adrian said after a moment, eyes sharpening slightly. “Now… play it hard.” Sally blinked. “You sure?” He planted his feet. “Absolutely. Don’t hold back.” Something in his tone gave her permission. She inhaled, then swung. This time the ball flew faster, lower. Adrian returned it effortlessly, adjusting his stance, absorbing her force without effort. “Again.” She did. Harder. “Yes,” he called. “That’s it. Follow through. Don’t pull away.” Sally grinned as she ran, hit, pivoted. Her legs burned pleasantly. Her body felt powerful—anchored, responsive. At one point she laughed breathlessly. “You’re making this look unfair.” “That’s experience,” Adrian replied lightly, sending another ball her way. “You’ll get there.” The door to the court opened quietly. Bridget stepped in, wrapped in a soft coat, coffee in hand. She paused, unnoticed at first, and took in the scene—her husband steady and focused, her daughter alive with motion, color in her face, strength in her stride. She smiled and sat on the stands. Sally caught sight of her mid-rally and faltered for half a second. “Eyes on the ball,” Adrian warned gently. Sally laughed, refocused, and sent another clean shot back. Bridget watched them move together—familiar rhythms, shared glances, the easy language of trust and encouragement. No pressure. No proving. Just presence. When Sally finally leaned forward, hands on her knees, breathing hard but smiling, Adrian lowered his racquet. “Good session,” he said. Sally nodded, flushed and glowing. “Yeah. Really good.” Bridget clapped softly from the stands. “You two look very convincing out there.” Adrian turned, mock-bowing. “Family sport.” Sally straightened, wiped her forehead, and grinned at both of them. It felt normal. And that, more than anything, felt extraordinary. -- A siesta felt infinitely better when it was earned. Sally didn’t even make it to the far side of the bed. She peeled off her clothes and flopped down where she stood, limbs loose, hair spilling across the pillow. She fished for a diaper under her bedside, and stripped off her panties, slipping the diaper on. Sleepyhead precautions. She relaxed her legs on the bed. The house might have been old, but the heating was quietly perfect—modern, invisible, indulgent. She didn’t bother pulling a blanket over herself. She set her alarm.  The mattress seemed to accept her completely, as if it had been waiting. Jogging before dawn. Hours of concentration. Tennis with her dad, all effort and laughter. Then lunch—simple but restorative. Warm tomato soup, roasted chicken with crisp skin, salad dressed just right. Mia had that gift: making food feel like care, not fuel. Sleep took her without negotiation. When she woke, it was to the gentle pressure of her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “Sally,” Bridget said softly. “I was wondering when you’d wake up, honey.” Sally startled, eyes flying open, heart racing for a split second before reality settled. She blinked, then groaned, rolling onto her back. “Oh no.” She reached for her phone, squinting at the screen. “Crap,” she muttered. “I set the alarm… but I didn’t actually turn it on.” Bridget laughed under her breath. “Two hours. Solid ones.” Sally groaned again and rolled to the edge of the bed. Bridget surveyed her diapered form – Sally was dry – and handed her a pair of loose lounge pants, already warmed from being folded over her arm. Sally tugged them on, catching her mother’s expression—soft, amused, unmistakably affectionate. “What?” Sally asked, already suspicious. “Nothing,” Bridget said, smiling. “You still look adorable, you know. Diaper and all.” She reached out and brushed Sally’s cheek with her thumb. “Curled up like that. Blankets everywhere. It warms my heart.” Sally made a face, dramatic and long-suffering. “Thank you, Mom. I feel significantly more loved now.” “That was the goal,” Bridget said serenely. The afternoon unfolded more slowly than Sally had planned—and somehow, that felt right. She ended up stretched out on the sofa with her dad, legs tucked under her, diaper secure under her loose lounge pants and slightly oversize hoodie. sketchbook balanced on her lap. The television murmured in the background—cars, of course. A glossy segment on a Ferrari that might never exist outside a private collection. “Overdesigned,” Sally commented without looking up. Adrian raised an eyebrow. “That one?” “Yes. Too many lines. It’s trying too hard.” Then, a Koenigsegg. Adrian hummed appreciatively. “That one’s honest,” Sally allowed. “Still terrifying. But honest.” After that came a Bugatti—beautiful, mythical, untouchable. “Not for sale,” Adrian said, amused. “Never was,” Sally replied. “And never will be.” She sketched as they talked, pencil moving almost on its own. Il Duomo rose beneath her hand, seen from above, precise but softened by memory. The square spread out in front of it. A small station wagon taxi, one hubcap missing. Two girls mid-motion, arms raised, caught forever in the act of flagging it down. She smiled to herself. It wasn’t just a drawing. It was a moment she’d decided to keep. -- The rest of the week settled into a rhythm that felt deliberate without being rigid—days shaped by intention, softened by familiarity. Mornings stayed early. Sally kept waking before the house, tugging off her diaper, slipping into leggings and a sweater, pulling on her cap, and jogging the quiet Zürichberg streets while the city stretched itself awake. Some days the fog sat low and patient; other mornings the sky was a pale, undecided grey. She learned which corners held frost longest, which bakery vans appeared first, which dogs always barked at her passing. By Friday, it felt less like visiting and more like belonging. Breakfasts became small ceremonies. Mia hovered, protective and slightly scandalized by Sally’s appetite after exercise. “You eat like this every morning?” she asked once, sliding over more toast. “Only when I move,” Sally replied, smiling. Mia sniffed. “Still too thin.” Sally frowned. She wasn’t. She was gaining weight. Theresa would be nearby, laptop open, headphones half on, glancing up just often enough to make sure Sally wasn’t overdoing anything. Jana sat quietly, building timelines and checklists that looked deceptively calm. Mid-mornings were for work. Sally focused fiercely, moving through assignments with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly what rest awaited if she finished well. Otto sent one final message on Friday morning—short, precise. “Gute Arbeit. Denk weiter. Werd nicht bequem.” Sally smiled at that. Praise, in Otto’s language. One afternoon, Adrian announced they were going to the supermarket. Mia looked personally wounded. “But… I already ordered everything,” she protested, arms crossed. “We need nothing,” Bridget agreed gently. “Which is precisely why we’re going.” Sally laughed as they climbed into the old brown E500 station wagon—the one that still smelled faintly of leather and winter coats, the one her grandfather had driven. Adrian handled the wheel with easy familiarity. Sally sat in the back, watching the city pass, aching just a little at the thought that the car was hers in every way except the one that mattered most. “Soon,” Adrian said, catching her look in the mirror. “I know,” she replied. “I’m patient. Mostly.” The supermarket trip was inefficient and cheerful. Bridget debated olive oils with a Portuguese attendant. Adrian inspected bread like it was a financial prospect. Sally pushed the cart, sneaking chocolate and cheeses into it when no one was looking. Mia forgave them by dinner. Wednesday afternoon, Sally and her mother walked along the Zürichsee. The lake was calm, metallic, edged with winter light. They walked slowly, bundled but comfortable, their reflections stretching and shortening along the wet pavement. “You excited to go back?” Bridget asked. “Yes,” Sally said without hesitation. “Old Cutler Bay feels… settled now.” “And Christmas there?” Sally nodded. “Warm. Quiet. Real.” Bridget squeezed her hand. “I’m looking forward to it too.” They talked about nothing and everything—books, travel, small annoyances, future plans that didn’t need firm edges yet. It felt like catching up on time they’d both been too tired to notice slipping by. By Thursday morning, the house had that familiar pre-departure hum. Suitcases appeared. Lists were checked. Mia packed snacks “just in case.” Sally laid out her travel clothes with care, already mentally shifting continents. Today, she’d fly to Florida with Jana and Theresa. The following weekend they’d all be together. Home. She’d spend time in her own space, settle back into routine. Meet Olivia at the newly finished Pembroke-Weiss Foundation offices. Not as a figurehead. Not as a child. As a student. A mentee. One-on-one. Her trust. Her future. Expectations that felt heavy—but not frightening. By the time the sun dipped behind Zürichberg on Thursday, Sally stood by the window, watching the last light fade. She felt ready.