Diaper References

Cracked Chicken made in the crockpot.

Egg salad sandwhich and star trek show...then probably a nap for the win. 

Chapter seven question stays suspended in the air of the little break room like steam above the coffee machine. What did they do to you. Four words. And inside them are months of silence, of hallways walked with my head down, of messages read and reread until the words stopped hurting — or hurt so much that I could no longer tell the pain from reality. I look at her hands. She's resting them on her knees, fingers slightly curled, as if she's holding back the urge to reach for me. She waits. She doesn't rush me. And it's exactly this — this patience, this waiting without pressure — that breaks me more than any question could. "Sophie," I say. Just the name, at first. Then the rest comes out like water from a dam that gives way. "A Middle. From Karales. She's been targeting me since the start of last year." Stephanie doesn't move. Her eyes stay fixed on mine. "At first it was insults. In the hallways, when there were no teachers around. Then she started shoving me against the lockers. Making me drop my books. Spreading rumors — lies so well constructed that even the ones who used to talk to me stopped." My voice shakes but I don't cry. Not yet. The words keep coming, one after another, as if they'd waited too long and now can't be stopped anymore. "Then she wanted money. Every week. If I didn't pay, she said something worse would happen. She sent me messages. Fifteen in four days. With threats. With descriptions of what she'd do to me." Stephanie goes pale. It's a faint pallor, almost imperceptible — just a slight shift in the tone of the skin around her lips. But I see it. I see everything now, because I'm looking at her the way I've never looked at her before: not as the older sister who always knows what to do, but as a person who can be hurt. "She isolated me," I go on. "I don't have friends anymore. I don't have anyone. The only teacher who understood something — Ms. Esposito — resigned last year. She filed a complaint. But Sophie's mother works in the school administration. She buried it." Stephanie's fingers close. Her nails dig into her palms. She says nothing, but her silence is louder than any scream. "And then there's Liam," I say. "Liam Jordan. Sophie broke two of his teeth with a punch to take his wallet. And nobody reported it. Nobody said anything. Because everyone's afraid." The coffee machine gurgles. The fridge hums. The world outside the break room keeps existing — officers passing in the hallway, phones ringing somewhere, the muffled murmur of the station — but in here everything has stopped. Stephanie opens her mouth. Closes it. Tries again. "Why didn't you tell me?" Four words. Like the first four. But these hurt more. "I don't know," I say. And it's the truth. "Fear. Shame. I thought... I thought that somehow it was my fault. That if I'd reacted differently, if I hadn't been such an easy target..." "Anna." Her voice is steady now. Steadier than before. "It's not your fault. None of this is your fault." She stands. She comes closer. She kneels in front of me — she, Stephanie, the activist, the lawyer, the little who fought against an entire system — kneels on the dirty linoleum of the coffee room and takes my hands. "Sophie did this to you. Her mother allowed it. The school closed its eyes." A pause. Her fingers tighten around mine. "But now I'm here. And I promise you that girl will never touch you again." The crying I was holding back arrives all at once. Not loud — a tremor in my shoulders, a heat rising from my eyes and running down my cheeks. Stephanie holds me. Her body is warm, smaller than mine — we're both littles, both the same height — but in this moment she seems bigger. As if her anger expands her, makes her capable of containing me too. We stay like that for a stretch of time I don't measure. Then Stephanie pulls back. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand — a quick gesture, almost angry. She stands. She turns toward the door. Angela is still there. Standing. Her shoulders against the doorframe, her arms crossed. She hasn't moved a millimeter. "Thank you," Stephanie says. Her voice has changed — now it's professional, measured, the voice of the lawyer who learned to move through a world of Amazons. "Thank you for bringing her here. For letting her testify." Angela gives a slight movement of the head — nothing more. "I'll take her home now," Stephanie continues. "She'll stay with me for a few days. Then we'll figure out what to do about the report. Bridget has my number, she can contact me for anything." She reaches for my hand. To lead me out. Angela doesn't move aside. "There's something your sister didn't tell you," she says. Her voice is calm. Too calm. The same calm she had in the kitchen, last night, when she asked me whether my name was really Maria. Stephanie freezes. Her hand is midair, suspended between the two of us. She turns to me. "Anna?" My heart stops beating. Or maybe it beats so hard I can't hear it anymore — I don't know which of the two. I only know that Angela is still there, in the doorway, and that I have no way out. "Your sister didn't come to the station just for Sophie," Angela says. Her voice isn't accusatory — it's flat, professional, the voice of a police officer reporting facts. "Last night she slipped into my house. She stole cash, jewelry, a computer. I caught her in the act." The silence that follows is different from every silence I've lived through today. It isn't charged with waiting or worry. It's the silence of glass fracturing, of a crack spreading, of something breaking that can't be repaired anymore. Stephanie looks at me. And in her eyes — those eyes identical to mine, the same brown, the same shape — I see everything: the bullying, yes, but also the thefts. The desperation. The wrong choices. All the things I didn't tell her, all the times I could have called her and didn't, all the nights I lay awake asking myself how I'd ended up here. "Is it true?" Three words. But these carry months of silence too. Angela stays in the doorway. She doesn't move. She doesn't add anything else. She's put my back against the wall, just like last night — except this time there's no corner of shame. There's my sister. And the truth. And I don't know which of the two scares me more.   Chapter eight "Yes," I say. "It's true." The word falls between us like a stone into still water. It makes no sound — but the ripples spread, reach every corner of the lounge, bounce off the walls and come back. Stephanie doesn't move. Her fingers are still suspended in midair, a few centimeters from my hand, as if time had frozen in the instant before contact. "You snuck into her house," she says. Her voice is flat. Not angry — worse. It's the voice of someone trying to line up facts that don't add up, of someone recalculating everything she thought she knew. "You stole. From a police officer." I nod. I can't speak. My throat has closed around the words like a fist. Stephanie stands. The movement is slow, measured — the movement of someone holding back something much bigger. She turns toward Angela. The two Amazons look at each other, and in that look there's a silent dialogue I can't decipher: eyebrows rising a millimeter, a jaw tightening, a breath stretching out. "Can I talk to you for a moment?" Stephanie asks. "Alone." Angela nods. Opens the glass door. Closes it softly behind her. They stay in the corridor, three meters from me — close enough that I can see them through the glass, far enough that their words reach me muffled, incomprehensible, like voices submerged under water. I watch their silhouettes against the light. Angela is at least thirty centimeters taller than Stephanie — the difference between an Amazon and a Little is always there, impossible to ignore, even when the Little in question is a lawyer, an activist, a woman who built her career fighting a system that wanted her in a stroller. And yet in this moment, seen from here, they don't seem so different. Two women. Two silhouettes against the light. Two ways of caring for me that I hadn't foreseen and don't know how to handle. Stephanie talks. Her lips move fast — I know her well enough to know she's arguing, using her lawyer's tone, the one she uses when she has to convince a judge or a bureaucrat. Angela listens. Arms crossed. Head tilted slightly to one side. She nods now and then. Then Stephanie stops. Inhales. I can see it in the rise and fall of her shoulders, in that small tremor that runs down her back. When she starts talking again, the tone has changed — slower, softer. She's not arguing anymore. She's saying something true. Angela answers. A few words. Her lips moving calmly, unhurried. Then she reaches out and rests a hand on Stephanie's shoulder — a gesture that lasts a second, maybe two, but says more than any speech. The door opens. Stephanie comes back in. Angela follows, but stays on the threshold — close enough to be present, far enough to give us space. My sister sits down next to me on the faux-leather couch. The cushion gives under her weight, creating a dip that makes me slide slightly toward her. Our shoulders touch. The warmth of her body through the fabric of her jacket. "Listen to me," she says. And her voice is no longer flat — it's Stephanie's voice, her real one, the one she used when I was little and had nightmares and she'd come sit on the edge of my bed. "I'm going to ask you one question. Just one. And I want you to answer with your heart, not your head. Okay?" I nod. "Angela. Did she hurt you?" The question hits me straight in the sternum. I wasn't expecting it. I was expecting: why did you do it. I was expecting: how could you. I was expecting: what went through your head. But no. Stephanie is asking me if I'm okay. "No," I say. And the truth of that word surprises me more than any lie I could have told. "She didn't hurt me. She..." I stop. The right words don't exist. How do you explain to your sister that an Amazon put you in time-out, spanked you, changed you and put you in a diaper — and that somewhere, in a corner of your head you don't yet have the courage to explore, you liked it? "She treated me like a child. But not with cruelty. With... care." Stephanie looks at me for a stretch of time I don't measure. Then she turns toward Angela. "My sister," she says, and her voice is the lawyer's again — measured, precise, every word chosen with care, "has spent the last year being bullied, isolated, threatened and robbed by a Middle who felt untouchable. She dropped out of school. She lost every job she managed to find. She snuck into your house because she was desperate — not because she was a criminal. I want that to be clear." Angela nods. "It is." "Good." Stephanie inhales. "Then I'll tell you something else. I'm not against Little adoption in itself. I'm against non-consensual adoptions. It's different. Many of my activist colleagues don't make that distinction — but I do. Because I've seen adoptions that work. I've seen Littles who choose to be adopted and who are better off afterward. It's not the choice I'd make for myself, but I don't judge those who make it." Angela says nothing. But something in her face shifts — a softening around the eyes, a small loosening of the jaw. "Anna," Stephanie continues, "is of age. She's eighteen. The law says she can choose. And I won't oppose her choice, whatever it is." A pause. "But I have one condition." "What?" Angela asks. "If Anna chooses to stay with you — if she chooses adoption — I want to be able to see her. I want to be able to talk to her. I want to still be her sister. I don't want her to disappear from my life just because she chose a different path than mine." Angela pulls away from the door. Takes a step toward us. Then another. Then stops a meter from the couch, close enough that I can see the fine lines around her eyes, the way the morning light maps exhaustion and determination across her face. "I never intended to separate you," she says. Her voice is warm — warmer than I've ever heard it. "I know what it means to have a sister. I know what it means to lose one." A pause. "My sister Mary adopted a Little last year. I know how important it is to keep family bonds. I would never break them." The silence that follows is different from all the silences that have filled this day. It isn't heavy with fear or shame. It's a soft silence — a silence in which things can still happen, but without the urgency of before. "I already gave Anna my number," Angela says. "I saved it in her phone while she slept. So she can call me whenever she wants. Whenever she's ready." Stephanie turns toward me. Her eyes — those eyes that are the same as mine — search for me. Find me. Hold me. "Did you hear that?" I nod. "No one is forcing you into anything," she says. "Not me. Not Angela. The choice is yours. Whatever you decide, I remain your sister. That doesn't change. It never will." She reaches out. Brushes my cheek with her fingers — a gesture so small, so everyday, that it breaks me more than any speech. "And now," she says, "let's go home. Both of us. We need to sleep, to eat, to breathe. The rest can wait until tomorrow." Angela opens the door. "I'll walk you out," she says. It isn't a question. We cross the corridor. The lobby. The sliding door. Outside, the morning light has climbed higher, turned whiter — the sun has risen above the buildings and lights the sidewalk with a clean, shadowless glow. The air smells of fresh bread and warming asphalt. Angela walks beside us to the parking lot. When we reach Stephanie's car — a blue compact, with a faded bumper sticker that reads "Little Rights Now" — she stops. "Anna," she says. I turn. "When you're ready," she says, "call me." She adds nothing more. It isn't needed. The words stay suspended in the air as I get in the car, as Stephanie starts the engine, as we pull away from the station and Angela becomes a smaller and smaller figure in the rearview mirror — until she's nothing at all. Only the sound of the engine. The fabric of the seat under my fingers. My sister's profile against the window, eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. I don't know what I'll choose. I don't even know if I'm ready to make a choice. But for the first time in months — in a year — fear isn't the only thing I feel. There's also something else. Something that resembles hope.  

After waiting 20 minutes to get an AT&T rep in chat I had a potty emergency and ended up having to let it go in my diaper to avoid getting out of the support line. Good thing it wasn't an in-person support session!

Hiiii  Im a abdl puppy boy who wants to have an abdl expirence with someone close to my age and I have had 0 luck so im hopeing to find someone here who would maybe want to give this lil pup a chance to be babied