Spanking

"Just in case, sweetheart." Gwen refused to elaborate, it was a coin toss a bit, if she let him know he'd panic, but not knowing definitely added to his anxiety. She had a feeling he'd try to remove his diaper or undo a lock, but she also planned to keep him in clothes and spaces that would remove temptation. Next, she picked up several boxes which she wouldn't let him get a good look at... but they sounded like powder. What kind of powder would you get in a baby store? Finally, she turned to him after grabbing a few more items, like some rags, a guard rail, and two more pacifiers. Then, instead of heading to straight to the tills, she bent down in front of him, giving him another forehead kiss, and smoothing back his hair. "See, was that so difficult, baby? Such a brave boy. Now before Mommy pays and gets you changed, you can pick out something special..." She led him over to an area filled with various plushies, from big to small, from frogs and cats, to dragons. "Pick whatever you like sweetheart, Mommy will let you go for now."  She released his hand, but remained in a position where she could intercept him if he tried to run.

This is a longer chapter, meant to close the Christmas special and gently set the stage for Sally’s growth going forward. After this, updates will come at a slower, more spaced-out pace. Thank you for reading, and I truly hope you enjoyed the story. — Sally cleared her throat and forced a little laugh into her voice. “Okay,” she said, aiming for teasing and landing somewhere closer to nerves, “why do I suddenly feel like you two smuggled me into the Alps to confess something dark and un-repeatable?” The joke lands and vanishes, swallowed by the firelight and the sudden stillness of her parents’ hands entwining, and Sally feels it then—that unmistakable shift when a moment stops being ordinary and becomes a before. She came to the Alps expecting snow, quiet, maybe nostalgia, not the careful pauses, not the way her mother’s eyes shine with fear and wonder at once, not the weight of a name she’s never spoken aloud but carries in her blood. What follows will fracture her certainty, reorder her place in the world, and ask more of her heart than she thought she had to give. Yet in the hush of the chalet, wrapped in winter and truth and an unexpected kind of grace, Sally will discover that Christmas doesn’t always bring what you want—it brings what grows you, and sometimes it arrives bearing the name Oskar Weiss.   Chapter 146 – Oskar Weiss The Range Rover curved up the familiar ramp, tires whispering over stone still dark with winter damp. Sally watched the house come into view and felt the quiet before she noticed it. “Where’s everybody?” she asked, scanning the windows. No movement. No familiar shapes. Adrian answered easily. “They went home for Christmas. Roberto and Mia. Philippines. They’ll do Christmas and New Year there, come back after.” Sally blinked. “Really?” Bridget nodded. “First time in years. We insisted.” Sally leaned back, trying to imagine the house without Mia’s steady orbit, without Roberto already thinking two steps ahead. It felt strange—and right, somehow. “Wow,” she said after a beat. “So… who’s doing the dishes?” Adrian snorted. Bridget turned in her seat and gave Sally a look that was equal parts amused and resolute. “Your father would not allow me to turn into a martyr. There’s a Portuguese couple helping out—cleaning, small repairs, that sort of thing. Mostly retired. They spend Christmas here with their grown kids.” “So you’re not left completely feral,” Sally said, relieved. “Exactly,” Bridget replied dryly. They parked near the entrance and stepped inside together. The house felt quieter than usual, but not empty—like it was holding its breath rather than missing anyone. “You sure you don’t want a nap?” Bridget asked as they settled into the living room. “You usually don’t sleep much on planes.” Sally shook her head, shrugging out of her jacket. “I slept like a baby. Six solid hours. Might do a short siesta later, but I’m good.” Bridget studied her for a moment, then smiled. “Maybe a swim, then. Untangle your muscles. The indoor pool hasn’t seen any love yet.” Sally raised an eyebrow. “Only if you join me.” Bridget didn’t hesitate. “Deal.” Adrian watched them both, smiling to himself. -- They swam without hurry. The indoor pool held the kind of warmth that loosened muscles and thoughts alike, steam rising softly where the water met the air. Sally stayed close to her mother, matching her pace, careful without being obvious about it. Bridget moved easily, relaxed, her strokes unforced. Every now and then they exchanged a look, a smile, the quiet reassurance of being side by side. Adrian watched them for a moment from the glass wall before retreating to the study, laptop open, already halfway into emails and calls. The house found its rhythm again. By the time they regrouped in the kitchen, hair damp and cheeks warm, Sally had already rolled up her sleeves. “Sit,” she ordered lightly, pushing two stools toward the table. “I’m cooking.” Bridget raised an eyebrow. “Are we being demoted to guests?” “Yes,” Sally said. “And obedient ones.” The omelettes came together quickly—eggs whisked until pale, folded just enough to stay soft, almost custardy. She plated them with toasted bread rubbed generously with ripe tomatoes, a thin drizzle of olive oil, and slices of Manchego laid out with care. Adrian took a bite of the bread and paused. “There is some Spanish blood in you,” he said thoughtfully. “Your grandfather would be proud of this.” Sally looked up, caught. “Erika’s father mentioned something like that,” she said. “He said Grandpa bought property in Ibiza. And the Costa Brava. I looked it up—it’s the northeast edge of the Mediterranean.” Adrian nodded. “True. He invested there. But he preferred the south to live. Quieter. Less performance.” Bridget stayed silent, watching Sally’s face as curiosity lit it from the inside. These fragments of a man Sally had never known always landed with weight. “Where?” Sally asked simply. “Jerez de la Frontera,” Adrian replied. “Good weather. Serious wines. That’s where sherry comes from. And the food—” he glanced at her plate, then wiped it clean with the last piece of bread, “—you’re already halfway there.” Sally smiled, pleased in a quiet, grounded way, as if something invisible had just settled into place. -- Sally did, in fact, surrender to the siesta. After the swim, she lingered under the shower longer than usual, letting the warm water do what the pool never quite managed—erase the faint scent of chlorine from her skin. Steam fogged the glass as she stood there, unhurried, the day softening around her. When she was done, she slipped on a diaper and pulled on a warm t-shirt, the kind that felt instantly familiar, and padded back to her room. She checked her alarm twice. Once to set it. Once to make sure it was actually on. Only then did she let herself fall into the bed. She gazed at the ceiling as she felt her body relax. She let go into her diaper, knowing that would help – it relaxed her despite the notion of voluntary peeing herself as a grown-up. There was magic in the pooling warmth between her legs. Sleep came fast and deep, the good kind—the kind that doesn’t ask questions or replay conversations. When she woke, the light outside had shifted, the afternoon already leaning toward evening. She stretched, uncurled herself, and slid into warm lounge pants over her diaper before heading downstairs. The kitchen smelled like coffee. Bridget was at the counter with a small pot, and Adrian was already seated, breaking a square of dark chocolate in half with deliberate care. “Look who resurfaced,” he said, eying the discreet bulk under her pants. “I set my alarm,” Sally announced, mildly proud. Bridget smiled over her shoulder. “And it worked.” They sat together, coffee cups warming their hands, chocolate melting slowly on their tongues. No rush. No agenda. Just the quiet luxury of being awake at the same time, in the same place, with nowhere else to be. Sally leaned back in her chair, content, the kind of contentment that doesn’t need to be named. -- Sally couldn’t quite name it, but there was a lightness in the room she hadn’t felt in a while. Not loud. Not forced. Just… playful. As if something had loosened its grip. She was curled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked under her, watching her parents over the rim of her mug. “The doctor’s visit did wonders on you,” Sally murmured. “They want me back for a follow-up after Christmas,” Bridget said, off handedly. “Nothing dramatic. Just checking progress. You can come with us if you want. Ask questions. I know you’ve been worried.” Sally leaned back again, tension easing from her shoulders. “Okay. That sounds… okay.” She glanced toward the window, the pale winter light already thinning. “So. Christmas in Zurich. Honestly, it’s comfortable here.” A small smile. “I’ll have to learn how to build a fire. Never done that in my life.” Adrian cleared his throat. Sally looked back at him. Both her parents were suddenly a little too coordinated in their silence. “There is,” Adrian said carefully, “something else we were thinking about. If you’re up for it.” Sally sat up. “What?” Bridget and Adrian exchanged a look—one of those quiet, practiced ones that didn’t need translation. “The chalet in Verbier,” Adrian said. “I haven’t been there in years. You should see it” Adrian continued. “Another of your grandfather’s places. It’s usually rented for the season, but there was a last-minute cancellation. Since we’re already here…” “Verbier?” Sally echoed. “Ski resort,” Adrian added. “We drive toward Montreux, then up into the Alps. Make a road trip out of it.” Sally turned to her mother, searching her face. “Are you really up for that?” Bridget didn’t hesitate. “I’m up for anything right now. And it sounds beautiful. You should get to know it.” Sally leaned back, a grin spreading before she could stop it. “I’m in.” Adrian smiled, already reaching for his phone. “Good. I’ll call housekeeping. We’ll have it ready.” The room settled again, warm and expectant, as if Christmas had just quietly changed shape. -- Sally woke a little after seven, later than she liked—but the habit stuck. The day didn’t get a free pass just because it was winter or because they were about to leave. She pulled off her wet diaper, wiped herself efficiently, and pulled on her running clothes and slipped out into the quiet Zürichberg morning.  The air was damp, the kind of cold that didn’t bite but settled into your skin. A thin mist hung low, explainable only by winter and geography. The streets were nearly empty again—delivery vans, the occasional early commuter, the city stretching awake. She kept her pace steady. Not pushing. Not testing anything. Just moving. By the time she looped back toward the house, her hair was damp with sweat and mist, lungs working evenly, legs pleasantly tired. She jogged up the last stretch and slowed to a walk just as the front door opened. Bridget stood there in a sweater and scarf, coffee mug in hand, already fully awake. “Well,” she said, smiling, “you look accomplished.” Sally laughed, slightly breathless. “I was going to skip it. I didn’t.” They attempted a hug and failed—Sally too wet, Bridget too warm and dry—ending in an awkward half-embrace that made them both laugh. “Go,” Bridget waved her off. “Shower. And put on something you can actually sit in for a few hours.” “Yes, ma’am,” Sally saluted, already backing toward the stairs. Up in her apartment, the signs of departure were everywhere. Her mother had been there already—bags open, piles forming with quiet efficiency. Sally paused for a moment, taking it in, then joined the rhythm. Loose jeans. Cashmere sweater. Warm socks. Comfortable shoes with real traction. Her heavy winter jacket was already downstairs, waiting like a promise. She packed quickly. No overthinking. Just what she needed. Before she went downstairs, however, she slipped on a Goodnite. Just in case.  Downstairs, breakfast had the tense calm of a house about to move. Plates, mugs, short sentences. Adrian was already halfway in travel mode, stepping in and out through the front door, loading the Range Rover with ease. Sally sat at the kitchen table, toast in hand, eyes following him through the window. “Our first proper European road trip,” she said, half to herself. Bridget smiled across from her. “Ready?” Sally nodded, heart light, stomach warm, the Alps waiting somewhere ahead. “Yep,” she said, making a point of showing her mother the waistband of her Goodnite. Her mother pressed her lips and frowned studiously, but nodded. “Good”. Outside, the car door closed. Inside, the day gathered itself. -- Sally sat back in the rear seat, making herself comfortable and feeling the supple leather seat mold to her body – it even received her extra padding with an edge of luxury.   She watched her father wage a quiet, stubborn war with the infotainment screen. Adrian frowned at it, tapped once, then twice. Nothing happened. He sighed, adjusted his glasses, and tried again. “This car is perfectly fine without all this,” he muttered. “Dad,” Sally called out, already leaning forward, “you’ve never connected your phone. Let me do it. I’ll set the GPS for you on the screen.” Adrian glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “And take over the music?” “Yes,” she said, without hesitation. “But I promise to be democratic about it.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “No weird teenager stuff.” Bridget laughed softly from the passenger seat. “You should give your daughter more credit. I influenced her.” Sally grinned and reached forward, tapping on the screen with the confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times. The screen lit up, obedient at last. “Verbier,” she said, tapping. “Three hours and sixteen minutes.” Adrian exhaled. “Add another couple for bathroom stops, food, and whatever detours you two come up with.” Sally zoomed the map, already planning. “We should stop near Bern for lunch. There are good places there. And shopping.” She winked at her mother. Bridget didn’t even pretend to resist—she nodded once, approving. They settled into the drive. Christmas Eve had pulled everyone onto the roads at once. Cars streamed steadily, many with ski boxes strapped to their roofs, back seats packed with bags and coats and anticipation. License plates from everywhere. The pace slowed and quickened in waves, but the Range Rover absorbed it all with quiet competence. Adele drifted through the speakers, low and patient. Adrian endured it for a while, having already claimed his share of Creedence Clearwater Revival earlier. He said nothing. That was endorsement enough. “I’ve set the lunch stop,” Sally announced as Bern came closer. “It’s… kind of a lunch-and-shopping place.” Adrian glanced at Bridget again. She shrugged, smiling. He followed the GPS as it directed them off the highway. “IKEA?” he asked, eyebrows lifting. “Swedish meatballs,” Sally said, delighted. “I’ve always wanted to try them. Apparently, it’s a very European thing to do.” “It’s Swedish,” Adrian corrected. “Close enough,” Sally replied. The cafeteria was loud, bright, and unapologetically efficient. Plastic trays, numbered signs, self-service lines. Adrian raised an eyebrow at the price of the meal, then another at the taste. “Huh,” he admitted, chewing thoughtfully. “Not bad.” Sally beamed, victorious. After lunch and a quick bathroom stop – Sally happily keeping her Goodnite dry for the remainder of the trip – curiosity got the better of them.  “We’ll just take a quick look,” Bridget said. They should have known better. The store swallowed them whole. One-way arrows. Carefully staged rooms. Subtle psychological traps disguised as throw pillows. They navigated kitchens they didn’t need, bedrooms they didn’t have, living rooms that made their own seem suddenly incomplete. Sally sat on a sofa and didn’t get up. “This is comfortable,” she said. Adrian checked his watch. “We are not buying a sofa.” They didn’t buy the sofa. They did, however, leave with a pillow, a set of colorful mugs, table mats, candles, and a vague sense of having survived something together. Two hours later, they escaped into daylight again, laughing, slightly dazed. Back on the road, the Alps waited. Verbier was still ahead. -- The road unwound itself patiently along the edge of Lac Léman, slipping past Montreux with a quiet elegance that felt almost deliberate. Early afternoon light should have been there, but the sun stayed hidden, as if respecting the season. Snow drifted lazily in the air—not falling so much as hovering—thin slurries catching the light and dissolving before they touched the windshield. Traffic moved in long, cautious lines. Christmas traffic. Roof boxes packed with skis, rear windows fogged by breath and anticipation. The snow gave everything a soft, hypnotic blur, broken only by brake lights and the occasional impatient engine. For a while, the route felt deceptively gentle. The land rolled rather than rose. The Alps were only suggestions on the horizon, pale shapes behind cloud and snow, more idea than reality. Then Le Châble arrived. And the idea became solid. The mountains didn’t announce themselves. They simply appeared—sudden, massive, unavoidable. Walls of stone and forest closing in, the road narrowing as if willingly surrendering to the terrain. Snow had begun to settle properly now, whitening the asphalt, tire tracks carving dark lines through it. Sally felt it before she named it. A tightening. Not fear—something closer to awe. Bridget’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. Adrian noticed and chuckled. “Winter tires. Range Rover,” he said lightly. “This is nothing.” Bridget shot him a look. “You always say that.” “And it’s always true,” he replied. “You should’ve seen me driving a fully loaded Alfa Romeo station wagon when I was a student. No traction control. Just all-wheel drive. Just optimism and bad judgment.” Sally laughed. She’d heard the story before. Her mother, apparently, hadn’t—at least not recently. Bridget shook her head, smiling despite herself. At the roundabout in Le Châble, Adrian took the exit without hesitation. The road went up. And kept going. Then it doubled back on itself. A sharp switchback. Up again. Another turn. Steeper now. “Dad…” Sally said, unable to help herself. Adrian glanced at the incline, amused. “Next ten kilometers,” he said. “Six miles? Something like that. About two thousand feet up. Maybe more. Hold on.” The V8 hummed steadily, unbothered. They passed a snowplow scattering salt, its orange lights flashing through the snowfall like a warning and a blessing at once. Higher still. Back and forth. The valley dropped away beneath them, the world rearranging itself with every turn. Then, almost without ceremony, Verbier appeared—warm lights glowing against white roofs, the town nestled into the slope as if it had always belonged there. Adrian slowed, turned off the main road, then off another. Streets narrowed. Became lanes. Then an alley that felt too small to matter. He eased into an open garage and cut the engine. Silence settled. Adrian turned, smiling. “Welcome to Le Weiss Chalet.” -- “The Closas are in town,” Adrian said casually, nodding toward the neighboring garage. “They are next door from us”. Sally followed his gaze. A dark BMW SUV sat beside their Range Rover, its rear hatch open. Two teenage boys were unloading bags and skis, moving with the loose confidence of people who had done this before. Spanish plates, if she read them right. The boys glanced up, curiosity flickering in their expressions as the Range Rover rolled in. Sally felt it immediately—the awkward awareness of being seen. Of being noticed. “Come,” Adrian said, already stepping out. “I’ll introduce you.” Sally hesitated, suddenly shy in a way that surprised her. Bridget caught her look and gave her a small, reassuring nudge. Together, they walked over. Introductions unfolded easily. “Antoni Closa,” the man said warmly, extending his hand. “And my wife, Gisela. These are our sons—Jordi and Artur.” Barcelona accents, softened by years of international living. “Welcome,” Bridget said kindly. Antoni turned his attention to Sally, his expression shifting—gentler, more deliberate. “You must be Sally.” She nodded. “Nice to meet you.” Adrian filled the silence. “They own a medical device company based in Geneva. Though they insist on living in Barcelona.” Antoni smiled, then shook his head. “Only because of your father, Oskar.” His voice carried weight now. He looked directly at Sally. “We owe him everything. When our company was—how do you say—finished… he stepped in.” “Bankrupt,” Gisela added softly. Antoni nodded. “Exactly. He saved us.” Adrian lifted a hand. “He took a percentage. That was fair.” Antoni frowned. “Only a symbolic one. We offered much more.” “And you tell me this every Christmas,” Adrian replied, almost apologetic. “That share turned out quite productive. You don’t need to remind me.” Antoni smiled, but his tone stayed serious. “Your grandfather was a generous man. Since he passed, his shares moved into a trust.” His eyes flicked briefly back to Sally. “A very fortunate trust.” Adrian glanced at Sally, just enough for her to understand. Her trust. She said nothing. Jordi and Artur watched the exchange with growing interest, clearly connecting dots they didn’t quite understand yet. Adrian clapped his hands lightly. “Well. We’ll have to ski together. And maybe fondue one night.” “Absolutely,” Antoni said. “It would be perfect.” Sally cleared her throat. “Or… pa amb tomàquet?” The reaction was immediate. Antoni blinked. Gisela laughed outright. “You speak Catalan?” Sally shook her head quickly. “No. Just… food vocabulary.” Jordi grinned. Artur’s eyebrows shot up, impressed despite himself. Antoni laughed. “Then you are always welcome at our table.” Sally smiled politely, already feeling the attention settle on her a little too heavily. The boys’ curiosity was unmistakable now. She shifted her weight, hoping skiing would come before small talk. -- The chalet revealed itself slowly, room by room, as if it were in no hurry to impress. It was built to hold twenty people without ever forcing them into the same space. Wide, confident architecture. Thick timber beams. Stone floors that held warmth instead of echoing cold. The living room alone felt like three rooms pretending to be one—one area arranged around the fireplace with deep sofas and throws, another quieter corner with armchairs and a low table meant for reading or late conversations, and a third space pulled toward the windows, all glass and night. The dining room was generous without being formal, a long table under soft lights, already set as if someone expected laughter to arrive. The kitchen beyond it was fully stocked, efficient, quietly luxurious. Housekeeping had done more than restock—they had anticipated. Fresh bread, fruit, soup simmering low, cupboards that didn’t need to be opened twice. Sally wandered upstairs, drawn by curiosity more than instruction. There were choices. Actual choices. A corner suite with windows on two sides. A room with a private balcony buried under snow. Another with a low ceiling and a view straight up the slope, like sleeping inside the mountain. She chose the one that felt right without knowing why. Big bed. Thick rugs. A chair by the window. Enough space to breathe. By the time she came back down, she had already changed—clean lounge pants, soft t-shirt, socks pulled up without thinking. Comfortable in a way that felt earned. They reconvened naturally in the living room, no one calling it a meeting. Adrian lit the fireplace with practiced ease. The fire caught quickly, filling the space with sound before heat. Bridget curled into one end of the sofa, shoes kicked off, glass of water forgotten on the table. Sally dropped onto the opposite couch, legs tucked under her, warmth seeping in. Outside, the mountain had settled into night. Lights dotted the slope in careful lines, quiet and deliberate. Snow caught what little light there was, reflecting it back softly. Above it all, the moon hung half-full, waxing, just bright enough to outline the ridges without revealing everything. No one spoke for a while. The fire worked. The house breathed. The journey released them. Sally leaned back, eyes drifting between flame and window, and let the silence stay. -- The fire cracked softly, the only sound brave enough to fill the room. Sally cleared her throat. “Okay,” she said lightly, trying for humor, “why do I get the impression you kidnapped me to the Alps to reveal something dark and inadmissible?” She smiled at the end of it. Half a joke. Half a probe. No one laughed. Her smile faltered when she saw her mother stiffen—just a fraction—then bite her lip and turn toward Adrian. His hand found Bridget’s immediately, instinctive, protective. Sally blinked. “…Wait.” She straightened, uncurling her legs and planting her feet on the rug. The warmth of the fire suddenly felt irrelevant. “I was joking. What is this?” Her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned forward. Alert now. Fully present. Bridget inhaled, slowly. “Do you remember your weekend in Milan?” Sally raised an eyebrow. Of course she did. “While you were there,” Bridget continued, carefully, “we went to see a doctor. I had… a full checkup.” Something inside Sally tightened hard and fast. “You didn’t tell me,” she said. Not loud. Not angry. Yet. “You said you’d go later. When I went to Florida.” Her eyes flicked to her father. “Dad said you were fine. He promised. He swore—” Adrian lifted his hand gently. “Wait, Sally. That promise still stands. Your mom is fine.” “Then what is this?” Sally shot back. “Why the secrecy? Why now?” Her voice thinned despite her effort. “What does she not have?” Bridget leaned forward, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles blanched. “I was exhausted,” she said. “More than made sense. We didn’t want to worry you. We thought—maybe we were overreacting. Maybe it was nothing. Or menopause. Or stress. But we wanted to be sure.” “And?” Sally whispered. Her heart was already racing ahead of the words. “And what?” she pressed. “What were you afraid of?” She swallowed. “Cancer?” The word landed heavy, ugly, undeniable. “No,” Adrian said immediately, firm and clear. “Absolutely not.” “But you thought it might be,” Sally insisted, eyes shining now, voice barely holding. “You thought something was wrong.” Bridget nodded once. “We thought we should rule things out. That was all.” “So why tell me now?” Sally asked, the hurt breaking through at last. “Why wait until it’s done—until you already know? What is it you don’t need to treat?” Her voice cracked on the last word. Bridget closed her eyes for a second. Then opened them and looked straight at her daughter. “I do need to treat it,” she said quietly. “Or rather… treat me.” Sally froze. “I’m pregnant.” -- Sally heard the words, but they didn’t land the way words usually did. They passed through her ears and detonated somewhere deeper—behind her eyes, in her chest, down her spine. It wasn’t noise. It was pressure. A sudden cold that spread through her limbs. Her parents were watching her closely. Too closely. She shook her head once. Then again. “No,” she said. “That’s… that’s not possible.” Her voice sounded thin to her own ears. Bridget tilted her head slightly, studying her daughter’s face, trying to read what had broken loose. There was a tremor of warmth in her eyes, almost a smile waiting for permission. “What do you mean, darling?” Sally swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. “You were in menopause,” she said carefully, like she was laying out facts in a courtroom. “That’s what the doctor said when you were in the hospital. When you had the gallbladder surgery.” She paused, then went on, because stopping felt worse. “And when you and dad… when you decided to get married after that, I looked it up. I researched it. You can’t get pregnant after menopause.” There. She had said it. She folded her arms tight across her chest, bracing. Bridget let out a small, surprised laugh—not dismissive, more touched than anything. “You researched all that?” Sally nodded, slow and serious. “I wanted to understand what was… possible. I wondered if this”—she gestured vaguely between them—“was ever going to be a thing. But now it doesn’t make sense. So why…?” Bridget’s smile softened. She crossed her arms and looked down for a moment, collecting herself. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “This should not have happened. My body was entering menopause. The odds were… negligible. Not something doctors plan around.” She glanced at Adrian, then back at Sally. “But in rare cases—very rare—when a woman’s body shifts into menopause, there can be a kind of rebound. Hormones surge unpredictably. Everything lines up just once.” She gave a small, incredulous shake of her head. “And that’s what happened.” Bridget was smiling now, not triumphant, not careless—just stunned and full. Adrian’s hand had found hers again, fingers woven tight. Sally shook her head, disbelief hardening into something sharper. “I also read,” she said, her voice starting to fray, “that pregnancy after forty is dangerous. Really dangerous. For the mother. And for the baby.” Her words rushed now, fear pushing them out. “Complications. Deformities. Chromosomal problems.” Bridget nodded immediately. “Yes. That’s exactly why we didn’t tell you right away.” Sally looked at her, eyes wide. Hurt flickered there—fast, but real. “We needed time,” Bridget continued. “Time for tests. For specialists. The doctor was very clear with us about the risks. Very clear.” Bridget’s hand let go of Adrian’s, and instinctively went to her stomach. Not resting, but… holding. She inhaled, steadying herself. “We did everything. Blood work, scans, genetic testing.” She looked straight at Sally now. “Everything came back clean. Perfect. No abnormalities. No markers. Nothing.” “It’s a boy,” Bridget said softly. “A healthy one.” The room seemed to tilt. A perfect baby. A boy. Her brother. Sally could feel her body betray her. She stood up so fast the coffee table rattled. “I—” She swallowed hard. “I need to go to the bathroom.” Neither of them stopped her. She walked quickly down the hall, pushed into the first bathroom she found, and shut the door with more force than she meant to. She pulled her pants and underwear down and sat down, breathing unevenly, her hands gripping her knees, as she relieved herself. Her head spun. Thoughts collided—fear, disbelief, something that felt dangerously close to grief, tangled with something else she wasn’t ready to name. “What now?” she whispered to the empty room. -- Sally felt steadier now. Not calm—just less scattered. The kind of balance that comes after a wave breaks and retreats. She wiped herself, stood from the toilet, pulled her pants up, smoothed her clothes and ran her fingers through her hair. Her face was damp. She hadn’t cried, not really, but tears had been there all the same, leaving traces. She dried her cheeks, took a breath, then another. Facing her parents still felt like too much. So she didn’t. She slipped into her shoes, pulled on her jacket, and stepped onto the balcony. The cold met her immediately—sharp, honest. The air was clear, the kind that made your lungs feel awake. Snow had fallen earlier, light but persistent, and everything below was dusted white. The wooden railing was cold under her palm as she brushed away the thin layer of snow and leaned forward. She checked her watch. Not even seven. Already dark. What am I supposed to do with this? Her thoughts ran backward, uninvited. Her mother in the hospital. The doctor’s voice, clinical but kind, listing facts Sally had absorbed too quickly for someone her age. Menopause. Hormones. Transitions. She had understood it in the abstract—biology, timelines, inevitability. Her mother was approaching fifty. It made sense. And when her parents had grown closer again, when marriage had re-entered the picture, Sally had worried. Quietly. Privately. She had researched, late at night, reading medical articles she only half understood but trusted enough to settle her fears. She had skimmed past the rare cases. The footnotes. The “in exceptional circumstances.” Now those exceptions had names. Faces. A heartbeat. She exhaled slowly. This year had been relentless. Her crash in February—no broken bones, not even a scar, and yet something in her had shifted permanently. Her body had carried the echoes of it in small, humiliating ways. Nights she didn’t talk about. Then her mother’s gallbladder. Hospital corridors. Recovery. Waiting. God is good. The thought arrived fully formed, not as an argument, not as a correction. Just there. Patricia’s voice echoed in her memory, the first time she’d said it without irony, without explanation. It had lodged itself somewhere deep, started something Sally hadn’t been able to undo even if she wanted to. Her mind jumped again—to the jet crash. Against all odds, she survived. To pain. To healing. To pneumonia and the strange strength that had followed. Physical. Spiritual. God is good. But I’m a jerk.  Suddenly she saw herself from the outside. Defensive. Angry. Afraid. Almost resentful of this new life growing inside her mother—not because it was unwanted, but because it threatened the fragile balance she’d fought so hard to regain. She huffed out a quiet laugh. What is wrong with you? She was going to be an older sister. That landed differently now. Not loss. Addition. She pictured it—a baby boy. Small hands. A weight against her chest. Her mother’s hand, earlier, moving instinctively to her stomach, protective without thinking. Sally straightened. Movement caught her eye. Her mother stepped onto the balcony, wrapped in her winter jacket. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, tentative, giving Sally space. Her smile was gentle. Her eyes kind. That did it. Sally’s throat tightened. “Mom… I’m sorry,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could overthink them. “I was a jerk. I panicked. And I got offended that you didn’t tell me right away, but… I get it. I would’ve been worried. Really worried. Probably sick with it.” Bridget didn’t answer with words. She crossed the space between them and pulled Sally into her arms, holding her tightly, protectively. “You are my big girl now,” she whispered. “And I love you so much, Sally.” They stayed like that for a while. No rush. Tears came then—quiet, unforced. Not fear. Not grief. Relief. Bridget eventually stepped back, brushing a stray lock of hair from Sally’s face, smoothing it the way she had when Sally was small. “What do you say,” she asked softly, “we make a Christmas Eve dinner? Celebrate properly.” Sally glanced inside. Her father was standing just beyond the glass, trying not to stare, failing completely. When their eyes met, she lifted a hand in a small wave. Adrian smiled. Not careful. Not guarded. Just him. Sally nodded once. “Let’s.” -- The kitchen felt different at night. Quieter. Not asleep—just attentive. Sally hovered near the counter while her parents moved with an ease that came from long familiarity. No staff voices, no soft footsteps anticipating needs. Just the three of them, sleeves rolled, reading labels, opening drawers, discovering what the house had been quietly prepared to offer. VIP housekeeping had done what it claimed to do: anticipated without intruding. There were platters already arranged under linen—charcuterie laid out with restraint rather than excess. Thinly sliced prosciutto folded into itself, bresaola dark and glossy, a small round of soft goat cheese wrapped in wax paper, and another firmer one labeled in careful handwriting: Gruyère d’alpage. A basket of bread sat nearby, still faintly warm, the crust crackling when Adrian pressed it. In the refrigerator, neatly stacked containers revealed themselves like a calm promise. A tray of roasted vegetables—carrots, fennel, potatoes—already seasoned, ready for the oven. A dish of salmon, marinated and waiting. A simple green salad, washed and spun, vinaigrette in a small glass jar beside it. “This is almost cheating,” Sally observed, pulling back a cloth and inspecting a dessert box. Adrian glanced over. “That’s the point,” he said. “Christmas Eve is not for suffering.” Bridget smiled from her place near the stove, tying her hair back. She moved more slowly than usual, deliberately so, and Adrian noticed—adjusting his pace to match hers without comment. “I’ll warm the vegetables,” Sally offered quickly. Bridget nodded. “Thank you, love.” While the oven preheated and the kitchen filled with the gentle sound of movement—foil crinkling, drawers opening, the soft thud of a cutting board—Adrian disappeared down the short staircase to the cellar. He returned several minutes later holding a bottle carefully, reverently. “Found it,” he announced, placing it on the counter like an artifact. “Vintage. Proper.” Sally squinted at the label. “That looks serious.” “It is,” he said, satisfied. Then, softer, to Bridget, “You’ll have half a glass. That’s non-negotiable.” Bridget raised an eyebrow. “Half.” “Measured,” he confirmed. They laughed—quietly, easily. The table was already set in the dining area adjoining the living room. Nothing elaborate. White plates. Cloth napkins. Candles lit low, flames steady. Outside the windows, the mountain was dark and still, the snow reflecting what little light there was. The moon hovered, pale and watchful. Adrian poured sparkling water into one glass, set it near Sally’s place, then handled the champagne with care, the cork releasing with a restrained sigh rather than a pop. He poured. Measured Bridget’s carefully. Topped Sally’s glass. “You’re the older daughter now”. They carried dishes to the table together. No one rushed. When they finally sat—chairs drawn in, hands resting on the table, the warmth of food rising between them—the room settled into a quiet expectancy. The kind that comes before words matter. -- Sally rested her elbow lightly on the table and tilted her head, studying her father over the rim of her glass. “So. A baby boy. How does that feel, dad?” Adrian turned the champagne flute slowly between his fingers, considering the question. “Surreal,” he said at last. “The doctor said it so plainly. No drama. Just facts. And yet…” He exhaled. “It felt like the ground shifted. In a good way. I’ve been waiting for this part—when we can stop worrying and start thanking God. Even if it’s in advance.” “Another Thanksgiving,” Bridget said, smiling into her glass. Sally made a face. “They should really spread those holidays out better. Six months apart. Much more efficient gratitude.” They laughed, the sound easing the room further. “Or,” Adrian said mildly, “we could try being thankful daily. Radical concept.” Sally rolled her eyes. “You’d ruin the entire holiday industry.” The food was good. Comforting without being heavy. Forks moved, glasses clinked softly, conversation wandered without urgency. They didn’t circle back to medical terms or timelines or what-ifs. That would come later. Tonight wasn’t for that. It was a pause. A held breath. “So,” Sally said after a moment, “New Year’s resolutions are going to be intense.” Bridget nodded thoughtfully. “Mine is simple. Be a good mother.” “You already are,” Adrian and Sally said at the same time. They froze, then looked at each other. Sally laughed first. Adrian followed, shaking his head. “Great minds.” Bridget blinked, touched, then waved it off with mock severity. “Flattery will not get you out of chores.” Sally leaned back. “Well, I guess that leaves me with my resolution.” She lifted her glass slightly. “Be a good sister.” “You’ll be excellent,” Bridget said without hesitation. Sally hesitated, then smirked. “Important logistical question. Do they sell car seats for Mustangs? Or am I being forced into minivan life prematurely?” Adrian’s expression turned solemn. Too solemn. “You don’t have to worry about car seats,” he said. “You just worry about being a sister. Period.” Then, softer, firmer in a different way, “You are not the nanny. Or the second mother.” Sally’s shoulders loosened. “Thank you,” she said. “I will officially remove diaper duty from my future résumé.” Bridget arched an eyebrow. “Careful. You still have your own diaper duty.” “Mom!” Sally gasped, scandalized. “Christmas Eve.” “Too soon?” Bridget asked innocently. Adrian nearly choked on his bread. The rest of dinner unfolded easily—names floated and were dismissed, hypothetical ski outfits for a baby were debated with absurd seriousness, Sally insisted the child would grow up bilingual at minimum, and Adrian argued for trilingual “out of principle.” Eventually, plates were cleared. Candles burned lower. They migrated into the living room, fire crackling softly, a small box of chocolate bonbons opened on the coffee table. Sally curled into one corner of the sofa, knees tucked, a piece of dark chocolate melting slowly on her tongue. Outside, the mountain lights shimmered faintly against the snow. Inside, the house felt settled. Not finished. But steady. -- “Should I leave snacks for Santa Claus tonight?” Sally asked, eyeing her parents with theatrical seriousness. “You’d better,” Adrian replied, not even blinking. Sally narrowed her eyes. “Is that why the car was packed like a military operation, and you wouldn’t let me anywhere near the trunk?” “Santa has… logistics,” Adrian said gravely. “Even for know-it-all teenagers on a last-minute ski Christmas.” “Oh no,” Sally groaned. “You said ski.” Bridget laughed, warm and unbothered. “This is Verbier. What did you expect—tennis whites and strawberries?” Sally shrugged into the corner of the sofa. “It’s just… it’s been a while. Lake Louise was what, last year? And then dad wanted to send me to New Zealand over the summer. That place with the impossible name.” “Whakapapa,” Adrian supplied instantly. They fell quiet for a beat. The unspoken memory hovered—the jet, the summer that never happened, the sudden fragility of plans. Sally straightened, resolve settling in her posture. “Well. If I can jog and play tennis, I can ski. I’m not made of glass.” Adrian nodded, as if this had already been decided. “Instructor’s meeting you Friday at nine.” Sally stared at him. “Of course he is.” “Your father is nothing if not efficient,” Bridget said, smiling at Sally’s disbelief. “Wow,” Sally muttered. “I feel scheduled.” Bridget shifted forward. “Before you go to bed, sweetheart—this is for tonight. It doesn’t make sense to wait.” Sally’s eyes lit up. “A pre-Christmas gift? I knew moving countries had perks.” She took the wrapped package, tore the paper carefully, then opened the thin box. “Pajamas?” she guessed, unfolding fabric. Then she stopped. It was a one-piece onesie. Thick. Fuzzy. Footed. Deep red and cream, with subtle Christmas patterns woven in—snowflakes, stars, tiny fir trees. Sally looked up slowly. “You’re serious.” “You were stranded in Switzerland without proper Christmas equipment,” Bridget said calmly. “I corrected the situation.” “They’re… intense,” Sally said, grinning despite herself. “I love them.” Adrian leaned back, satisfied. “Practical. Warm. Slightly humiliating. Perfect.” “I’m putting them on immediately,” Sally declared, already standing. Upstairs, she closed the bedroom door and stepped into the unfamiliar ritual. She knew how it worked—zippers, snaps—but it had been years. She shed her clothes, but she knew what came first. She smiled ruefully as she walked to her open suitcase – the one with the diapers. She took her time putting it on, lying down on the bed. It calmed her. It relaxed her. And she might be the older sister, but sisters had their needs. Clad in her diaper – correctly fastened and checked, she stepped into the pajama feet. The fabric was absurdly soft, warm the moment it touched her skin. She zipped herself in, wiggled her toes inside the footed ends, made sure her diaper fitted well under it, then caught her reflection. She stared. Then laughed. “Wow,” she said to herself. “I look like a festive marshmallow.” She turned side to side, adjusted the hood, shook her head once. A ridiculous, comforting thing. Exactly right. Even the diaper added a cozy curve to it. Sally padded back downstairs and stopped at the edge of the living room. “Well?” she asked. Bridget pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes shining. “Oh my heart. And you’re all ready for bed.” Adrian squinted, pretending to evaluate. “Acceptable. Santa-approved. And so would the elves.” Sally did a slow, exaggerated spin. “I feel five years old and extremely warm.” “Best combination there is,” Bridget said. Sally curled back onto the sofa, tucking her feet under herself, the fire snapping softly nearby. She hadn’t even used the bathroom before putting on her diaper. But there was nothing to worry about. She had her comfort and security.  Outside, snow rested quietly on the dark slope. Inside, the house held its breath in the best way. Christmas had arrived, whether anyone was ready or not. -- As soon as Sally had settled into the sofa—cross-legged, swallowed by her new fuzzy pajamas—Bridget stood and stretched. “I might as well get ready for bed myself,” she said, glancing fondly at Sally’s cocooned comfort. Then, with a look over her shoulder, she added, “Make sure your father doesn’t fall asleep on us. “I’ll do my best,” Sally replied, arching an eyebrow toward Adrian. “You’re looking tired, Dad.” It wasn’t teasing. He was. Adrian shrugged. “What can I say. Too many emotions for an old man.” “You’re not old,” Sally said immediately. “Pushing sixty. Fifty-eight in March,” he countered, as if weighing it aloud. “Need help carrying the load?” Sally offered. He smiled faintly. “There’s a Benromach in the cellar. Can you bring that—and a glass?” Sally blinked, then stood. “Cellar. Benromach. One glass. I assume this is not a scavenger hunt.” “Nein,” Adrian said, amused. She padded into the small temperature-controlled cellar near the kitchen. Mostly wine, carefully lined. The whisky was easy to spot, placed as if waiting. A tray of glasses sat nearby. She took one, cradled the bottle against her chest, and returned. It felt strange carrying a bottle of whiskey while wearing a diaper and a footed pajama. She set everything down neatly beside him. “Danke, mein Schatz.” Sally folded back into the sofa as Adrian poured a modest measure. The liquid caught the firelight. “I’d offer you some,” he said, “but your body would not approve.” “It smells like nail polish,” Sally replied, wrinkling her nose. “Expensive nail polish,” Adrian said, lifting the glass. “To big sister.” He took a sip, paused, then exhaled slowly. After a moment, he sat a little straighter. “The news hit hard,” he said. “But you took it well.” Sally nodded, eyes drifting to the window. “It didn’t fit in my head. Not at first.” “It’s bigger than you think,” he said gently. “I know. I’m fifteen. My life felt… set. At least family-wise. Then you get married, and suddenly there’s a baby.” She shifted, hugging one knee. “I was selfish. I’m sorry.” “You did better than we ever hoped,” Adrian said quietly. “We’ve heard horror stories. You passed with flying colors. And we love you for it.” “I love you too,” Sally said. Then she leaned forward. “How are you taking it?” He considered the question. “One day at a time.” She waited. “When my son is your age,” Adrian continued, “I’ll be seventy-two. An old man. That’s a reality I can’t negotiate with.” Sally said nothing. “So I celebrate,” he went on. “And I thank God. And I also let go of what I cannot control.” “He’ll be your new heir,” Sally said, quietly. Adrian laughed softly. “Because he’s a boy? What do you think this is—Spanish royalty?” She grimaced. “No. It’s just…” “You think you’ll be sidelined?” She didn’t answer. “That’s not how this works,” Adrian said firmly. “You’ll have a voice. A strong one. You already do. You’re training to take over responsibilities most adults never touch. Your brother will have his place—but so will you.” “And the trust?” Sally asked. “Does he get part of that?” Adrian shook his head. “No. Oskar set it for you. Only you. The terms are ironclad.” Sally looked toward the dark glass. “I still don’t understand why he did that… if he never wanted to meet me.” From the doorway came a soft step. Bridget entered, already in her pajamas and robe, hair pulled into a loose knot. She sat beside Adrian. “It wasn’t easy for him,” she said gently. “Some people struggle to resolve family wounds. That was his way of making amends.” “The more I hear about him,” Sally said, voice tight, “the more I wonder why.” Adrian nodded. “He was a good man. And a stubborn one. We were estranged. When I finally went to Spain, he was dying. We had months together. We didn’t fix everything—but we made peace.” Sally wiped her eyes. “I didn’t know.” Bridget slid closer, wrapping an arm around her. “You don’t control everything that shapes you. But you can choose what you do with it.” Adrian nodded. “God gave me second chances. With my father. With my family. With Him.” Sally sniffed, then looked up. “What are you going to name the baby?” Silence. Bridget laughed nervously. “We hadn’t gotten that far.” “It has to be unanimous,” Adrian said. “All three of us.” Sally raised her hand. “I have a proposal.” He arched an eyebrow. “Already?” “Oskar.” Both parents stared. “It’s about second chances,” Sally said. “And gratitude. And remembering.” Bridget didn’t hesitate. “I like it.” Adrian rubbed his chin, then nodded once. “Oskar Weiss,” he said quietly. “Approved.” -- Having a name gave the evening a different rhythm. The tension loosened. Words flowed more easily. They weren’t circling an abstract idea anymore; they were talking about someone. Oskar. Or, as Bridget had already started to say without thinking, little Oskar. “I forbid that,” Adrian said at once, pointing at her with mock severity. “No ‘little.’ He is Oskar. Period. I don’t want him growing up with a permanent disclaimer attached to his name. Like the ‘Junior’ thing you Americans do.” Bridget laughed and lifted her hands in surrender. “All right. No more little.” She rested a palm on her stomach, the gesture unconscious, protective. Sally watched it quietly, the way her mother’s hand lingered there, as if already familiar with the shape of what wasn’t yet visible. Later, when the house had settled and the fire burned lower, Bridget walked Sally upstairs. The chalet creaked softly, warm and alive in the cold night. Bridget pulled the heavy blinds down, sealing out the snow-lit darkness, then sat on the edge of the bed. She leaned in and kissed Sally’s forehead, the way she had when Sally was small. Sally caught her wrist gently. “Do you feel the baby?” Bridget smiled and took Sally’s hand, placing it against her stomach. “Not yet,” she said softly. “Maybe in another month.” Sally kept her hand there, as if patience alone might summon movement. “When is he due?” she asked. “Early June,” Bridget replied. Sally nodded, already drifting. “Just in time for summer.” Bridget smiled, smoothing the blanket over her. “Just in time.” -- Sally felt oddly young as she slipped out of bed. The footed pajamas didn’t help, soft and ridiculous in the best way, nor did the quiet awareness of the wet bulky diaper beneath them. She padded into the hallway, careful with each step, and crept down the stairs like a conspirator. The living room greeted her in a hush. Between the Christmas tree and the fireplace sat a generous, unapologetic pile of presents. Boxes stacked at angles, ribbons slouched, tags catching the firelight. It looked less curated than everything else in the chalet—more human, more joyful. Sally grinned. Her eyes drifted to the sofa. A whiskey bottle stood on the side table, beside an empty glass. She shook her head, amused. “Santa needed fortification,” she murmured, smirking. It was early. The kind of early where the house still felt half-asleep. Sally decided she was old enough—officially—to start the day properly. Coffee. She approached the Italian espresso machine with a mix of confidence and suspicion. Polished steel. Too many buttons. She stared at it, pressed one experimentally, then sighed. “Nope.” Phone out. Search. A YouTube video. Of course. A few minutes later, after pausing and replaying twice, the machine came to life. Steam hissed. Coffee poured. The smell bloomed instantly, rich and grounding, filling the room. The first sip jolted her awake. The cup was gone almost too quickly. She glanced at the drip coffee maker. That felt like the grown-up move. Larger quantities. She found the grinder, measured beans—then winced as the grinding sound filled the quiet house. “Well,” she muttered, “so much for stealth.” “Do I smell coffee?” Sally turned, smiling. “Merry Christmas, Mom.” “Merry Christmas, child,” Bridget replied, leaning in to kiss her. She looked rested. Soft. Warm in her robe. Sally wrapped her arms around her and rested her palm against Bridget’s stomach. “Merry Christmas, Oskar,” she said, giggling. Bridget laughed quietly and reached for a mug. “You are an early riser. One day,” she added wistfully, “they’ll invent a silent coffee grinder.” “I’m strategizing,” Sally said, pouring. “If I start early, I can open presents before lunchtime.” Bridget smiled over the rim of her mug. “Your father will be down soon.” “Good,” Sally said, satisfied. -- By the time Adrian came down the stairs, the living room had fully woken up. The fire was alive, coffee cups were steaming, and Sally was cross-legged on the rug in front of the tree, still very deliberately in her footed pajamas. The outline of her wet diaper was clearly visible, but she didn’t mind. If she was going to be the only kid in the house for a little while longer, she was going to commit. Adrian stopped halfway down, took in the scene, and sighed theatrically. “I leave you alone for one night,” he said, “and you revert to infancy.” Sally didn’t look up. “I call it strategic regression.” Bridget laughed from the sofa. “Let her have it. In six months she’ll be explaining college applications to her brother.” “That is a horrifying sentence,” Sally muttered, finally glancing up. They settled into their usual triangle by the tree. Adrian lowered himself into the armchair, Bridget curled one leg under her, and Sally scooted closer to the presents like gravity was doing most of the work. “Rules?” Sally asked, already reaching. “No rules,” Adrian said. “Just don’t shake anything that can break.” Sally gave him an innocent look. “You raised me better than that.” She went for the box with her name first. Of course she did. It was heavier than expected. Solid. She tore the paper with enthusiasm that was only slightly exaggerated, lifted the lid, and froze. Inside, nestled in black foam, was a detailed 1:18 scale Koenigsegg One:1. Carbon fiber weave rendered perfectly. Tiny brake calipers. Even the stance looked aggressive. Sally stared. Then she gasped. Actually gasped. “Oh no,” she whispered. “You didn’t.” Adrian leaned forward, smug. “Oh, I absolutely did.” She lifted it carefully, like it might bite. “This is… this is not a toy. This is a statement.” “Correct,” Adrian said. “A very expensive statement. At a very safe scale.” Sally turned it, inspecting every angle, reverent. “This is the car that scares other hypercars.” Bridget smiled. “I love watching her when she talks about cars. It’s like watching you explain interest rates.” Sally dug back into the box and pulled out the envelope underneath. She opened it, scanned the page, then looked up slowly. “Track driving. Defensive driving. First high-performance techniques?” Her voice went quiet. “Dad.” “You asked for something about driving,” Adrian said simply. “Not a car. Something that teaches you to respect one.” Sally swallowed, then leaned over and hugged him hard, onesie and all. “This is perfect.” “Good,” he said softly. “Because I meant it that way.” Bridget cleared her throat. “Before we all get emotional, may I open mine?” Her box was slimmer, elegant. When she opened it, the leather bag inside was understated and beautiful—structured but soft, deep espresso brown with clean stitching and no visible logo. Sally tilted her head. “I don’t recognize it.” “You wouldn’t,” Adrian said. “It’s from a small atelier in northern Italy. Very discreet. They make bags for people who don’t want to be noticed.” Bridget lifted it, running her fingers along the leather. “It’s gorgeous. Practical. Serious.” “Like you,” Adrian said. She smiled, genuinely touched. “Thank you.” Sally leaned back on her hands, surveying the scene. Fire crackling. Coffee refilled. Presents half-opened. Her diaper crinkled faintly when she shifted. “I just want it noted,” she said, “that this may be my last Christmas where I can legally wear this and nobody can stop me.” Adrian raised an eyebrow. “Legally?” Bridget laughed. “Enjoy it while it lasts, kid.” Sally hugged the Koenigsegg model to her chest. “I intend to.” -- Sally was still admiring the miniature Koenigsegg when Bridget slid another stack of presents toward her with a conspiratorial smile. “These,” she said lightly, “are also for you.” Sally eyed the pile. Multiple boxes. Different shapes. Suspicious. “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m being outfitted rather than gifted?” she asked. Adrian leaned back. “Because you are.” She grabbed the first box and tore it open. A flash of color exploded out—bright pink, unapologetic, trimmed in crisp white. Sally froze. “Oh no,” she said slowly. “Oh no, you did not.” Bridget laughed. “I absolutely did.” Sally lifted the ski jacket, holding it at arm’s length like it might argue back. It was sleek, technical, unmistakably premium—and loud in the most cheerful, Alpine way possible. “This is… aggressively pink. So cool.” “Yes,” Bridget agreed. “So you won’t disappear into a snowbank.” “And because,” Adrian added, “Verbier does not reward subtlety.” Sally pressed the jacket against herself, then the matching pants emerged from the box like a coordinated ambush. She stared at them, then at her parents. “I look like I’m sponsored by happiness.” Bridget clapped her hands. “Exactly.” The second box revealed ski boots—serious ones. Proper flex. Not rentals. Sally ran her fingers along the shell, instantly respectful. “Wait,” she said. “These are fitted.” “Measured,” Bridget corrected. “Your foot hasn’t changed since last winter.” Sally blinked. “You noticed?” “I’m your mother,” Bridget said. “I notice everything.” Next came the helmet—white with subtle detailing—and goggles with a mirrored lens that caught the firelight. Sally pulled them out one by one, the realization settling in. “You planned this,” she said quietly. Adrian nodded. “You said you were willing to try. We listened.” Sally swallowed, then grinned. “I’m going to be the loudest skier on the mountain.” “Fastest,” Adrian corrected. “Eventually.” She stacked the gear beside her, then leaned back, suddenly aware she was smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. “Okay,” she said. “I officially forgive the secret doctor’s visit.” Bridget laughed. “High praise. And before you get too comfortable—there’s one more.” Sally frowned. “Another one for me?” “No,” Adrian said. “For me.” Sally’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. This I need to see.” -- Bridget handed him a long, narrow box. Adrian opened it carefully, then stopped. Inside was a Tag Heuer Formula 1 Gulf Edition. Blue dial. Orange accents. Sporty, restrained, unmistakably purposeful. Adrian stared at it for a moment longer than necessary. Sally leaned over. “I picked the colors. They reminded me of endurance racing. And you.” He looked up at her, surprised. “They did?” “You like things that work,” she said. “And last.” Adrian fastened the watch around his wrist, testing the weight. “It’s perfect.” Bridget smiled at both of them. “I thought so too.” Sally stretched her legs out, the diaper crinkling again, and sighed deeply. “So,” she said, surveying the room—gifts, fire, coffee, her parents sitting closer than usual. “Hypercar models, ski gear, watches, and a baby named Oskar.” Adrian raised his cup. “Not a bad Christmas.” Sally nodded. “Not bad at all.” -- Sally shifted on the rug, the footed pajamas creasing as she leaned forward and reached for two flat packages she had tucked carefully behind the armchair. “Okay,” she said, suddenly quieter. “These are… mine.” Adrian straightened without meaning to. Bridget’s smile softened, instinctively bracing for something tender. Sally handed the larger frame to her father first. “Dad. Open this one.” Adrian took it slowly, almost ceremonially. He peeled back the paper, then froze. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. The sketch looked unfinished at first glance—but alive. The Seven Mile Bridge stretched across the page, unmistakable in its long, elegant arc. The water beneath it shimmered in layered blues and greens. A fishing yacht drifted below, lines cast into the sea. On the stern stood a man and a girl—older than a child, younger than a woman—shoulders angled toward each other, rods held loosely, not really fishing as much as sharing the moment. Adrian swallowed. On the bridge itself, crossing from left to right, an orange Fiat X1/9 cruised with its top down. A young woman drove it, hair pulled back, posture relaxed, confident. The car was unmistakable. So was the feeling. The far right edge of the paper was blank. Not empty—waiting. Adrian’s voice came rough. “Sally…” She shifted, suddenly shy. “It’s not finished. I didn’t want to finish it without knowing what comes next.” Bridget covered her mouth. “That car,” Adrian said quietly, tracing the outline with one finger, careful not to touch the graphite. “My mother’s car.” “I know,” Sally said. “You never drive it. But you keep it ready. Like a promise.” Adrian exhaled, sharp and uneven. “And the bridge?” “The Seven Mile,” Sally said. “Because it feels like… crossing something long. Not scary. Just… meaningful.” He nodded, eyes glossy now. “And the blank part?” Sally met his gaze. “That’s for later. When we know.” Adrian set the frame down carefully, stood, and pulled her into a tight embrace, careful of her awkward pajamas but not of himself. “Thank you,” he said into her hair. “This—this is everything.” She hugged back, hard. “Merry Christmas, dad.” Bridget cleared her throat softly. “My turn?” Sally nodded and handed her the second frame. Bridget unwrapped it and immediately inhaled. The sketch was urban, fluid. People walking through a city—anonymous figures, coats, movement, life. But everything was rendered in charcoal except the shoes. Red heels. Brown boots. White sneakers. Blue loafers. Each pair vivid, intentional, grounded. Every step mattered. Bridget’s eyes filled instantly. “Oh, Sally…” “I kept thinking about walking,” Sally said gently. “How everyone’s going somewhere. How you don’t always see where they’re headed, just that they’re moving. Choosing.” Bridget touched the glass. “And the shoes?” “They’re the only part that touches the ground,” Sally said. “They carry everything else.” Bridget laughed through tears. “You have no idea how much this means.” “I think I do,” Sally said softly. Bridget pulled her into an embrace, one hand careful, instinctively protective over her stomach now, the other wrapped around Sally’s waist. “You see people,” Bridget whispered. “Really see them.” Sally rested her cheek against her mother. “I learned from you.” They stayed like that for a moment—fire crackling, coffee cooling, snow falling quietly outside. Adrian cleared his throat, voice still thick. “Well,” he said, attempting composure and failing slightly. “If this keeps up, Santa’s going to need tissues next year.” Sally laughed, wiping her eyes. “Good. He already drank your whisky.” Bridget smiled at both of them, heart full, eyes shining. This Christmas wasn’t loud. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. -- It had been naïve to think the news could be contained. Sally sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, phone in both hands, staring at the 3Musk chat like it was a live wire. She’d promised her parents she’d keep it tight. Patricia, Katrina, Clara. No leaks. No ripple effect. She typed.   Sally: I need to tell you something. And you cannot tell anyone. I mean it.   Katrina: That intro alone is suspicious.   Clara: I’m listening.   Sally inhaled, then just went for it.   Sally: My mom is pregnant.   There was a pause. A long one. Then—   Katrina: …WHAT.   Clara: Oh.   Katrina: That’s not how biology works, Sally Weiss.   Sally: Apparently it is. Surprise level: catastrophic.   Clara: Is she okay?   Sally: She’s great. Tests are clear. Baby’s healthy. Boy.   Katrina: A BOY???   Clara: Wow.   Katrina: I need to sit down and I’m already sitting.   Sally smiled despite herself, tension easing just a little.   Sally: I told you first. You’re sworn to secrecy.   Katrina: I swear on my nonexistent reputation.   Clara: You have my word.   Katrina: Also… how are YOU?   Sally paused, thumbs hovering.   Sally: Still processing. But okay. Better than okay. God is… doing His thing.   Clara: He does that.   Katrina: I don’t even know what to say except congratulations and please don’t make me an aunt figure yet.   Sally stared at her phone for a second longer than usual. Then she typed.   Sally: Hey. Quick update before you hear it from someone else.   The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.   Erika: You’re scaring me. What happened?   Sally: Nothing bad. Actually… something big. Sally: My mom is pregnant.   There was a pause. Longer this time.   Erika: Erika: Erika: WAIT. WHAT??   Sally smiled despite herself.   Sally: I know. Same reaction. Sally: Baby boy. Due in June.   Erika: Oh my God. Erika: Sally… that’s incredible. Erika: Is she okay?   Sally: She is. Really. Tests are good. She’s calm. Happy. Sally: I just needed you to know.   Erika: I’m smiling like an idiot right now. Erika: Please tell your mom congratulations from me. Erika: And you… big sister Weiss. Wow.   Sally pressed the phone lightly against her chest for a moment.   Sally: Yeah. Wow.   Sally laughed softly and set the phone down. She stared at Patricia’s name next. Patricia had already sent her a Merry Christmas message earlier—thoughtful, warm, unmistakably Patricia—but she hadn’t replied yet. Now, instead of text, a notification popped up. Patricia is calling… Sally blinked. Of course she was. She glanced down at herself. White jeans. Green Christmas sweater. Hair still slightly damp from the shower. Presentable. Human. Not footed-pajama-feral anymore. She accepted the call. “Hey,” Sally said, trying to sound normal. Patricia’s face filled the screen, soft light behind her, calm eyes instantly attentive. “Merry Christmas, Sally.” “Merry Christmas.” Behind Patricia, movement. A shoulder. Then Charlie’s head leaned briefly into frame as he reached for something off-screen. Sally’s stomach did a stupid, traitorous flip. “Oh—hi,” Charlie said, registering her. “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas,” Sally replied, aware of her own voice in an unhelpful way. Patricia smiled, already sensing layers. “We were just setting things up. You look… good.” “Thanks. You too.” Patricia tilted her head. “You said you needed to talk.” Sally nodded, suddenly serious. “Yeah. Um. Big family news.” Charlie lingered, curiosity written all over him, pretending very badly to be busy. Sally took a breath. “My mom’s pregnant.” Patricia’s hand flew to her mouth. Charlie froze. “Wait—what?” Patricia leaned forward. “Sally… are you serious?” Sally nodded. “Very. It was a shock. To everyone. But she’s okay. Baby’s okay. It’s a boy.” Patricia’s eyes filled instantly. “Oh my goodness.” Charlie shook his head, stunned. “That’s… that’s incredible.” Patricia exhaled, almost laughing through tears. “God is good.” Sally’s throat tightened. “He really is.” “Have you told anyone else?” Patricia asked gently. “Just Katrina and Clara. And now you.” Patricia nodded. “Thank you for trusting me.” Charlie smiled at Sally, warm and uncomplicated. “How are you holding up?” Sally considered the question honestly. “I freaked out. Then I didn’t. Then I did again. And now… I think I’m okay. It’s like God nudged me and said, ‘Sit down. I’ve got this.’” Patricia smiled fully now. “That sounds about right.” In the background, voices drifted in—Patricia’s siblings, her parents, drawn in by the energy shift. “What’s happening?” someone asked. Patricia glanced back, then to Sally. “May I?” Sally laughed softly. “Sure.” Within moments, the Selter kitchen had turned into a small celebration, congratulations tumbling over each other, Christmas cheer doubling back on itself. “Can we say hi to your parents?” Patricia asked. “They’re in the kitchen,” Sally said. “Setting the table.” “Perfect.” Sally carried the phone downstairs, where Bridget and Adrian were mid-discussion about plates versus serving bowls. “Mom. Dad. You’re on,” Sally said, holding up the screen. They leaned in, smiling, a little amused, a little overwhelmed—and just like that, the circle widened. Faith. Family. Surprise. And Charlie, still in the background, caught Sally’s eye one more time and mouthed, clearly: Congratulations. Sally smiled back, heart steady. God really was good. -- And Christmas began, just like that. Not with spectacle, not with hurry, but with quiet certainty. The table was set, the fire steady, the light soft. Food appeared in an almost unhurried way, as if it had always been meant to be there. Bread still warm. A roast carved without ceremony. Simple vegetables done properly. Wine poured carefully. Vichy Catalan water refilled without asking. Sally noticed, somewhere between the first laugh and the second serving, that her chest felt… settled. They talked. About nothing important and everything that mattered. Adrian told a story twice and made it better the second time. Bridget laughed more than she spoke, a hand occasionally resting on her stomach as if to reassure herself that the day was real. Sally ate too much dessert and didn’t regret it. Afterward, the fire won. They migrated to the living room, full and lazy, the kind of full that makes moving optional. Sally curled up on the sofa, feet tucked under her. At some point she drifted off, half-aware of the crackle of wood and her parents’ voices blending into a low, comforting murmur. She woke to noise. Not abrupt. Just… lively. “Sally,” her mother called gently, amused. “Wake up, darling. We have guests.” Guests, it turned out, were already halfway in. The Closas arrived with the confidence of people who knew the rules of mountain hospitality. Jackets piled quickly. Boots lined up without instruction. Antoni carried wine like a peace offering. Gisela brought bread wrapped in cloth, apologizing for nothing and everything at once. “And fondue,” Adrian announced, rubbing his hands together. “Properly done.” That woke Sally up fully. They gathered around the table again, this time closer, sleeves rolled, laughter louder. The pot sat in the center like a small ceremony. Rules were explained with unnecessary seriousness. “No bread dropped,” Antoni warned. “Or punishment.” “What kind?” Sally asked, wary. “Unknown until it happens,” Gisela said, smiling sweetly. Jordi and Artur flanked Sally without consulting anyone. Jordi—sixteen, confident enough to pretend he wasn’t trying. Dark, wavy hair, quick smile. Artur—fourteen, sharper, louder, convinced he needed to compete immediately. “So,” Jordi said, dipping his bread with care, “you live in Florida?” “Yes.” “By the ocean?” “Yes.” Artur leaned in. “Do you surf?” “No.” “Why not?” Sally raised an eyebrow. “Because I don’t want to drown.” Jordi laughed. Artur frowned, then laughed louder. They slipped into Catalan without warning, rapid and musical, arguing about whose bread technique was better, whose turn it was, who had cheated. “És culpa teva.” “No, tu!” “Mentider.” Sally watched them for a moment, amused, then sighed theatrically. “No sigueu rucs.” The table went quiet for half a second. Then Jordi stared at her. “Did you just—” Artur’s grin was immediate. “She did.” Antoni burst out laughing. “She tells my sons not to be donkeys in Catalan. On Christmas.” Gisela wiped her eyes. “Perfect.” Jordi looked at Sally with new respect. “Okay. You win.” Sally dipped her bread, calm again. “Good. Because I wasn’t competing.” The evening unfolded easily after that. Cheese stretched. Glasses refilled. Snow fell outside without needing commentary. The fire stayed lit. Voices overlapped. It was Swiss and loud and warm all at once. -- After the Closas left—boots clomping down the wooden steps, laughter fading into the cold—the chalet settled into a deep, alpine quiet. The fire cracked softly. Snow continued its patient work outside, reshaping the night. Sally lingered at the window for a moment, watching the neighboring lights dim one by one, then turned back into the warmth, already feeling that pleasant exhaustion that only good food, laughter, and mountain air could bring. Tomorrow, she would ski again. She could feel it already—muscle memory waiting just beneath the surface, like jogging after weeks off, like stepping back onto a tennis court and trusting her body to remember before her mind did. She would go carefully, but confidently. She would listen to her legs. And she would keep one eye on her mother, always. Not anxious—alert. Protective. Hawk-level awareness. There would be research too. Quiet late-night reading about baby boys, brothers, age gaps. About what it meant to be strong without being overbearing. Present without disappearing. And sometime tomorrow—maybe between runs, maybe after lunch—she’d build a snowman just off the porch. Not perfect. Just real. A marker in the snow that said: we were here, and this mattered. For now, the mountains held them. And Sally let herself rest.

And the hero is the therapist! Shit smell is just a matter of perspective! All this sounds suspiciously like a self-healing attemp... 🙄

Well, here's the next chapter. Its a bit of a sad one i'm afraid. Like I said, not entirely happy with it. I've trouble with the pacing and tempo.  But to really review it, and maybe rewrite it, it would take some time off to give myself some distance to the story, like a month or so to return to it with a fresh eye. I don't want to do that, yet. I feel the story needs to have an ending and I want to reach the teapot. it will appear in the 19th (and last) chapter.   18. Sitting in the car, trying hard to lick the last remnant of the strawberry ice cream from the tip of his nose with his tongue, Jake listened to Jenny's explanation before she started the engine. “I have to go to a hopefully short, but still very important meeting with social work. You can't go with me, Marianne will take care of you for a couple of hours.” He wasn't fooled. “The meeting is about me, isn't it?” Jenny grinned behind the wheel. “I forgot how smart you can be sometimes. Easy to forget when you keep trying to finish your ice cream that way, honey. Do you know how ridiculous it looks?” Jake wiped his nose with his hand and drew her a funny face. “Anyway, yes it is about you. They will have me answer a lot of questions to satisfy procedures. I have to sign a lot of papers and then wait for some official documents. But in the end, they will grant me custody of you. Mr. Henry was real quick to set the whole thing up after I called him this morning with our, your decision.” That threw his mind back to yesterday, his anxiety at daring to ask Mrs. Jenny about how his future was going to be, the dreadful tension waiting for her answer and the sheer ecstasy after. That feeling hadn't left him since and nothing would make it go away. “You don't need to be there, and like I told you, It's boring. You'll be happier at the daycare.” Jake relaxed in the seat. “It's ok, Mrs. Jenny. I like Miss Marianne. Does she know yet?“ “Not yet, and good to hear that. Now, shush and let me drive. If you can do that maybe I'll let you tell her our good news.” Jenny smiled at the prospect. “You know, I'm almost as excited as your are about her reaction!” Jake watched the streets quietly while Jenny drove them to the daycare. This time he took considerably more notice of his surroundings. The street names, the kind of houses and stores along the route. The park with a small playing ground. This would be his neighborhood for the coming years after all. He wanted to get to know it. Thus occupied, it made the drive seem even shorter than it was. Parked again before the entrance, Jenny pushed the bag with plushies in Jake's hands to carry while she rummaged through the groceries to retrieve one of the purple pampers packages to take with them inside. The unspoken meaning of it cut only a small ripple into his happy feelings, and got quickly diverted as Jenny let him go in first, implying that he was the one to tell. “Miss Marianne!” After breaking their good news smiling from ear to ear to Marianne, and good it was because it wrapped him in the biggest hugs he ever got from her and the other staff, he sat for a while at his desk and half heartedly picked up the geography assignment he feverishly bungled two days before, glancing at the same time at Jenny and Marianne who quietly talked some things over at the other end of the room, probably making some further arrangements about him. Then Jenny waved a goodbye and he tried to remember the name of the big red dot on the chart again. He got bored quickly this time and wandered a bit about the room entertaining himself with dealing out some of the soft plushies he brought and getting the little ones to play with them. Marianne let him, amused at the way he demonstrated to feeling completely at home in this surroundings. She observed his interactions for some time, alternating between keeping the age threshold between him and the two or three year olds, guiding them to a new toy, or crossing that line by simply playing alongside them. Blessed are the fools and children. He makes it seem so natural, she thought. Being able to be like you want to be in the moment, without any regards to self esteem, or worries about an outside world, simply trusting that all would be provided for by some caring adult. If someone would ask her why she liked her work so much, that would be her answer. On the professional level she noted at the same time the good sign that Jake was able to let go and trust, as the base from which to stand confidently further on. It would be up to her and Jenny to offer him that sanctuary for as long as he needed, while keeping his real age in mind and provide him with enough moments to return. For that reason she asked him to read to a couple of the other children after a while. The central room of the daycare turned quiet as Jake sat on the ground with the brightly colored book in front. The toddler next to him had his thumb in his mouth as he started reading out loud, slowly flipping page after page. It was a funny book and called for him to make lots of animal noises, enchanting the boy and girl he was entertaining while loosing himself, and the track of time, in the story. When he was finished the staff picked the little ones up to transport them to the bathroom, leaving him by on the floor with his legs spread out wide before him. Marianne approached him. “Looks like you could use a change as well, Jake.” She held out her hand, with her eyes bringing his attention to the distinct swelled up bulge in his trunks. Why didn't he notice that before? Or why hadn't he even noticed that he needed to go? “Don't bother, lovey. You were distracted with reading. I'll help you. No problem.” Marianne hauled him up from the carpet and suddenly that picture from a week ago re-entered his mind when Jenny had suggested the trainers: lying on that changing table alongside the toddlers with his bottom in the air, Marianne's hands holding his ankles. He looked uneasy to the half open bathroom door. Marianne didn't miss it and chuckled. “You wouldn't fit on them my dear. And while none of those toddlers would pay any attention to you, I can understand you wanting a bit more privacy. Let's go to the other room.” He walked with her to the nap room and at her direction laid down on the same cot where he had been sleeping before. He watched her rip the purple package open, removing one of the pampers and grabbing a box of wipes from the shelf. She sat next to him on the cot and put a hand on his stomach. “I know I'm not Jenny and that she is the only one that changed you until now, but she asked me to help you this time. I helped you and Jenny once before when you were sick. Is that OK with you?” With slight apprehension, he nodded. It wasn't unexpected. He had known something like this would happen the minute Mrs. Jenny took one of the packages with them inside. He liked her asking, though. “Good, we'll be real quick and then you can choose what to do the rest of the afternoon here.” Marianne continued, unbuttoning his trunks at the same time and sliding them down to his ankles. “That reminds me, We'll have to contact your teacher for a follow-up program next week.” “Next week?” Jake asked while his underpants followed the same route. “Didn't Jenny tell you? You'll be here one more week. Then it's the summer break for school.” “No, she didn't.” Marianne ripped the tapes open and wiped his front clean. “Oh well, guess it's because we only just decided it. We thought it would be no use getting you back in class for only one week. Can you draw your knees to your chest for me, Jake? Like you do for Jenny?” He did and let Marianne apply a wipe on his bottom and remove the old disposable. “Then you have the whole of summer break to get back in shape for school again.” She unfolded the pamper and slid it under him. “Now let's see if this fits you. Jenny will want to know. You can let go of your knees now.” Marianne had no problem fitting the tapes on the colored strip on the front and slid his underpants back over. She looked at it with a satisfied look on her face. “I think thats much better than the old, don't you think. That one was much more bulkier.” Jake nodded his approval, It felt like a good fit, with much less of the plastic sticking out, and reached for his trunks himself, slid them up and started to button it up again. “You look just like Jason now, Jake.” Marianne's casual remark caught Jake completely off guard. “How? When?” he asked stunned. “Jason was here almost all of the time. This was his cot. He couldn't go to any regular school of course and...” Marianne stopped mid-sentence when she saw Jake's face. “Oh, I see. What has Jenny told you, Jake?” “Nothing, really. She mentioned him..., or Liam,” he added “only a couple of times. And she always got that look on her face like you have now. Your lips smile but your eyes are sad.” Suddenly he wanted to know more. “What happened, Miss Marianne?” Marianne straitened her face. “I understand you want to know, Jake. But I don't think I should tell you If Jenny didn't. You can ask her.... She should.”   To Jake, it was the most strange afternoon after his first meeting with Jenny. That first car ride to her home in silence, not knowing where they were going didn't even come close to the awkward silence surrounding him now. Jenny picked him up from the daycare with a smile on her face, papers in hand, only to be met by Marianne. They spoke softly for some time until Jenny took him home. Silent and smile gone. Lost in thought. He asked, once, if something was wrong, if he had done something wrong and was only assured that it wasn't the case. He just couldn't understand. This was supposed to be one more happy afternoon, with Jenny having been granted full custody of him, she showed him the papers, so why wasn't it? But Jenny left him to his own activities while preparing dinner. And they finished it in silence. “He's asking questions Jenny, when are you going to tell him?” Marianne's words this afternoon had rudely shaken Jenny from of the happy cloud she drifted on after receiving the custody papers from social work. She was right. Its about time. But how? What is the best way to handle this? It was then that she remembered the slide show she hadn't viewed for over three years now and decided her course of action. The rest of the afternoon going over in her mind what and how she would tell, getting distracted and inadvertently frightening Jake with her silence. “I understand Liam and Jason came up this afternoon.” Jake jumped in his chair at hearing Jenny's voice suddenly again after the long silence. “I'm sorry if I frightened you. My fault, Jake. I was distracted.” she continued gently, shaking her head to prevent him as he started to answer. “You deserve answers... but in my own words and own time. I want you to take your bath and we'll get you ready for the night. Then I want to show you something here.” He took his bath on his own while he heard Jenny moving something in the room below before she quietly put his nighttime diapers on. When they returned downstairs the curtains had been drawn shut to shield the living room from the early summer night. A slide projector was set up. It's bright beam hitting a big white screen on the end of the room. Jenny settled on the sofa and invited Jake on her lap, making them both comfortable. Then she hit the remote and the first slide came up. Two boys, about the same age as Jake looked straight in the camera. Laughing, arms around each other's shoulders. They were standing in the garden, the swing visible behind them. Both in summer clothes, shirts and shorts, one with a slight but obvious bulge. They looked so much alike. The one on the left was curly blond. The one on the right had slightly red curling hair dancing in all directions and a small nose that seemed to tip upward at the end and freckled apple cheeks that made him look adorable. His eyes were light brownish. “But... but... Thats me! Jake exclaimed, looking incredulously and shaken at the screen and then at Jenny who wrapped her arms about him in a tight hug to comfort herself as much as him. “The one on the left is Liam, the one on the right is Jason, my sons...” “I can't believe it!!” Jake kept his eyes locked at the screen. “I couldn't either when I first met you. They say everyone has a double somewhere in the world. Jason is your's. And by the most extraordinary chance I could ever imagine, the fate of luck has brought you here in this house.” “But why didn't you tell me!” “We'll get to that, promise. But first I want to show you some more of their, our lives together. I'll tell you all about them.” Jake found himself easing again against Jenny, as he followed her tale going through slide after slide. He saw the two brothers, like babies, like toddlers, both wearing the thick cloth diapers. And when they got older the growing distinction between them. Jason always padded in some way, whereas Liam was not. Liam's first day's at school. Their holiday's together. In playgrounds. Eating cake at the table at birthday's. Climbing trees. Building with the same sticks. Their whole live. A normal life. “So, while they were vastly different, they remained close. We had come to accept that Jason would never grow up and would always need our help. Liam never left Jason's side, always caring for him, taking him along whenever he could. He was the one who always understood Jason more than anyone else.” Jenny finished her story when the last slide showed the two boys once more together, Liam pushing Jason on the swing. They looked at the picture in silence. Jake sensed there was more but that she hesitated to go on. After some time, he asked: “You said 'were', not 'are'. His remark had Jenny hug him even closer. “You are a good listener. Maybe You can understand know why I haven't told you this before. I didn't dare.” She took a deep breath. “One of the first things we noted about Jason being different is that he was the quiet one. Liam would always make sounds and he was the first who started talking. Small words at first and then short sentences. But no matter what we tried, with Jason it remained different. He would utter sounds sometime later on but never a word. Even the simple ones. Nowadays we would say he was 'non-verbal' and doctors expected that he would never be able to speak or use language to communicate. He talked to us by pointing at the things he wanted. The only one who never accepted that future was Liam. He kept trying to teach Jason. A couple of day's before my birthday I noticed that the boys were more secretive, working on some special project, Liam taking the lead as usual. I suspected of course that he was preparing a surprise for me. I secretly enjoyed it and was very proud of them. Then, at my birthday, when we picked Jason up from the daycare, Liam and Jason sat on the backseat of the car. Liam was all worked up and wanted me to look at Jason. That “he finally got it and really tried”. You noticed how I always stay concentrated on the road but that day I let myself be distracted. Liam wanted me so much to look at them and he was so excited, I just couldn't disappoint him. I will never forget his exuberant face when he prodded Jason who looked strait at me and uttered his first clear word... and then the world exploded as we crashed full speed into some truck I had missed.” Jake felt Jenny beginning to shake behind him as he listened with shock. She rested her head upon his to seek comfort as the scene replayed in her head. “They died that day and I'm the one to blame.” This time the resulting silence took significantly longer. Jake dared not move and tried to find something to say. “What did he say?” he asked at last and as gentle as he could. “What?” “What was the word Jason said?” Jenny wiped some tears from her eyes as she smiled sadly to herself with the remembrance. “Mom.... Mom..., that was the first thing he ever said to me... and the last.”    

Day DailyDi mentioned the other day there has been a huge number of database queries going on. Somebody, somewhere, is copying and overloading his server. He's been working on it... I just pinged dailydiapers.com and got 104.26.7.60 with times about 26ms. So it's not the network getting to here that's slow.