Spanking

I dream about that.  It would be absolutely amazing to rock back and forth on a rocking horse in a messy diaper. 

It just takes a lot of practice to always tinkle a little bit in your diaper vs holding it until you have to go and then flooding your diaper. As others have said,  your diaper will be able to hold a lot more if you tinkle a little bit and don't flood it. It still feels good, feeling the little trickles come out into your diaper. Sometimes I'll flood my diaper when I first put it on, but then tinkle the rest of the time I have it on.

Great chapter. I wonder, since Phil had to wear diapers instead of pull ups, like Samantha, if Phil was forced to use them. That would’ve been the real, long lasting punishment. Having to use the diapers and get changed in front of the class like any of the Littles. Getting his diapers checked in front of everyone would be bad as well, especially if said diaper needed changing. I have a feeling Samantha is going to disappear one day. He may find out where she was later in life, but I think she will just vanish and that’s going to scar Greg.    I have a feeling Kelly is about to discover Greg’s diapers soon. If she doesn’t already know, there’s a chance she already does. I think we’re going to find out a lot more about Kelly in the next few chapters.     

Switzerland let them go without drama, as if Verbier’s snow had done its job and didn’t need applause: five days of quiet muscle memory, pink gloves and aching legs, warmth layered under armor, and a New Year that landed like a blessing instead of a countdown. In Zurich, the clinic confirmed what Sally had started to believe on the mountain. She wasn’t fragile anymore. Her lungs were strong, her body rebuilt, her life wide enough for tennis and mischief, even if a few nights still asked for patience. Then the ultrasound turned knowledge into something she couldn’t outthink: Oskar on a screen, a real boy with toes and fingers and a heartbeat that filled the room, steady and insistent, and the first hint of a smile in the way his face formed. By the time the Gulfstream lifted through grey cloud into sudden bright sky, Switzerland was already becoming a postcard behind them: snow and woodsmoke, order and healing, a chapter closing gently. Miami rose in gold and glass, and when the Ford Fiesta rolled onto familiar streets and the palms took over from pines, Sally felt it settle in her chest like truth. Home sweet home, Coral Gables.   Chapter 147 – New Heart During the Christmas holidays in Verbier, Sally skied. Not in a cinematic way. Not charging down impossible slopes or posing for photos. She skied the way she did most things lately—attentive, methodical, present. What surprised her most was the suit. The bright pink and white one her mother had given her, still faintly smelling of new fabric and alpine air. It was bulky in that reassuring way good ski gear is—layers upon layers, a soft armor over her thermal underwear. And a diaper under it, of course. It hid so easily, Sally dismissed the strangeness of it. No more ski slopes bathroom tension. At first it felt oversized, almost comical, the kind of outfit that made you waddle rather than walk. But once clipped into her skis, the weight disappeared. The padding muted the cold, dulled the sting of wind on her thighs, and wrapped her in a kind of physical confidence. She could fall without fear, move without flinching. It wasn’t elegance—it was permission. Permission to be clumsy, to relearn, to take her time. Let go. And in that cocoon of color and warmth, sliding quietly down the mountain, Sally felt protected in a way that went beyond winter sports.  The first morning felt like a small expedition. Boots slung over her shoulder, skis awkward in her hands, learning again how to move through a ski town that expected you to know where you were going. Lifts. Signs. The quiet choreography of people who had done this their whole lives. By the time she reached the meeting point, her cheeks were already cold and her fingers pleasantly numb. Rosana was impossible to miss. Late thirties, maybe. Compact, powerful stance. Helmet tucked under one arm, poles in the other. Dark hair braided tightly down her back. Her accent arrived before she did—Argentinian Spanish wrapped around clipped German commands and softened by occasional English. “Sally, sí?” Rosana asked, looking her over with quick, professional eyes. “That’s me.” “Bueno. We start easy. Always easy first,” Rosana said, already turning toward the lift. “La nieve te habla, ¿viste? Te dice todo. Vos solo tenés que escuchar.” Sally followed, adjusting her pace to Rosana’s. She liked her immediately. Sally knew how to ski. That much was true. The basics lived in her body—how to stand, how to stop, how to trust the edges just enough. But skiing had always been seasonal for her. Each winter ended just as things started to click. Each return began with forgetting. Colorado. Utah. Oregon. Lake Louise. Beautiful places, all of them. But skiing there had been something you did between other things. Here, it felt different. This was Europe. Old lifts. Long runs. A culture that didn’t rush you off the mountain. Rosana watched her on the first descent without saying much. A correction here. A pole tap there. “You ski like someone who’s careful with her body,” Rosana said finally, sliding up beside her. “Not afraid. Respectful.” Sally nodded. “I’ve had reasons to be.” Rosana didn’t ask. She never did. They worked on rhythm. On letting the skis do the work. On trusting gravity instead of fighting it. “North America,” Rosana said at one point, carving a clean arc into the snow. “Good snow. Big spaces. But Europe teaches patience.” Sally laughed softly. “My dad would agree.” Rosana’s eyes lit up when Sally mentioned places beyond the Alps. “Pyrenees,” Rosana said dreamily. “Long, wide. Quiet. Andes too—my home. Big mountains. Humbling ones.” “What about New Zealand?” Sally asked. “My dad loves Whakapapa.” Rosana stopped, planted her poles, and grinned. “Ah. Volcanic snow. Wind. Character. Good taste, your father.” They skied until Sally’s legs burned in that deep, satisfying way that meant progress, not punishment. Every evening, she came back to the chalet flushed and tired, snow clinging stubbornly to her boots. Her mother watched her with a quiet vigilance that never turned into worry, and her father pretended not to count how many runs she’d done. The snowman never happened. Not enough snow in the village. Too dry. Too powdery. The kind of snow that belonged on slopes, not in yards. Sally shrugged it off. Some things weren’t meant to be built. What mattered was that her body remembered more each day. Balance returned. Confidence settled in. Just like jogging. Just like tennis. By New Year’s Eve, Sally stood at the edge of a run, looking down the valley, breathing in cold air and thinking—not for the first time—that maybe consistency wasn’t about doing something perfectly. Maybe it was about showing up again, and again, and again, until the muscle memory decided to stay. -- New Year’s Eve arrived quietly, wrapped in snow and exhaustion. Sally had come back from the slopes with legs trembling in the good way, cheeks wind-burned, and thoughts pleasantly empty. The bath was already running when she reached her suite. Hot water, steam, silence. She slid in and let her body float, every muscle loosening at once. Outside the venetian blinds, the mountains were reduced to dark shapes, a few scattered lights clinging to the slopes like constellations fallen too low. She closed her eyes. “This is heaven,” she murmured to no one in particular. A gentle knock followed, careful and familiar. The door opened just enough for her mother to step in, carrying a folded towel. Her mother frowned at the wet diaper unceremoniously dropped by the toilet, but said nothing. “Heaven will have to wait, darling,” Bridget said softly, setting the towel down. “We have visitors.”  Sally cracked one eye open. “Visitors?” Her voice echoed slightly off the tiles. “Yes.” “Who?” Bridget smiled in that particular way that meant she was enjoying herself far too much. “Surprise.” Sally groaned theatrically. “Mom. You cannot say that while I’m half-melted.” “You might want to unmelt, then.” Sally laughed, splashing a little water as she stood. “Fine. But if they expect me to be coherent, that’s on you.” She hurried through the rest of her routine, hair still damp when she slipped into a simple white mid-length dress. Barefoot, no makeup, cheeks still pink from the bath, she padded down the stairs, curiosity pulling her forward. The living room lights were warmer than she expected. The fire was going. Voices—familiar ones—floated toward her before faces did. Then Otto stood up. “Sally! Happy New Year!” he boomed, arms opening wide. Her breath caught. “Otto!” she exclaimed, crossing the room in three quick steps and hugging him hard, forgetting entirely that she was still damp and barefoot. “What are you doing here?” Before he could answer, her eyes jumped past him. Olivia, smiling with that calm, steady warmth. Ken beside her, already grinning. Sally made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “No. No, you didn’t.” Olivia opened her arms just in time. “We did.” Sally hugged her, then Ken, then Otto again, laughing now, overwhelmed. “You people cannot just appear like this. I was in the bath. I was mentally nowhere.” “That’s the best time to surprise someone,” Ken said. From near the fireplace, Adrian and Bridget watched her, glowing in the way only parents who had successfully orchestrated something perfect could. “You planned this,” Sally accused, pointing at them, still smiling too much to sound serious. “Guilty,” Adrian said lightly. Bridget stepped forward and smoothed a damp strand of hair off Sally’s cheek. “We thought it would be nice to end the year together.” Sally looked around the room again—faces she trusted, people who felt like home in different ways. “Nice?” she said softly. “This is… perfect.” Otto clapped his hands once. “Now,” he said, “who’s ready to explain how you managed to survive another year and still look this happy?” Sally laughed, finally settling into the moment. New Year’s Eve, she realized, had just rewritten itself. -- Adrian and Bridget had been deliberate about this moment. They hadn’t wanted a phone call, or a carefully worded message. This was something that needed faces, silence, time. So they had gathered the people who mattered—the ones who knew how to listen without interrupting, how to hold joy and gravity at the same time. When the news came, it landed softly at first. A pause. A collective intake of breath. Olivia’s hand went to her mouth. Ken blinked, then smiled, slow and wide. Otto sat back in his chair, quiet in a way that meant he was moved more than he would ever say out loud. And then, inevitably, their eyes drifted to Sally. They were looking for cracks. Shock. Resistance. They didn’t find any. Sally was glowing. Not in a loud way. Not performative. Just… steady. The same warmth she’d carried all week—whether she was loading the dishwasher without being asked, stomping snow off her boots at the door, or racing Jordi and Artur down a narrow run and laughing when she lost by inches. She’d slipped into the rhythm of Verbier like it had always been hers. At dinner, she stood when Adrian raised his glass. “Before midnight,” he said, voice calm but full, “we want to thank God for a year that should have broken us—and didn’t.” Sally lifted her own glass, careful and ceremonial. “To Oskar Weiss,” Adrian continued, glancing at Bridget, whose hand rested unconsciously at her stomach. “A life beginning. A name returning. A heart already beating stronger than we deserve.” Sally met her mother’s eyes and smiled, unguarded. “To Oskar,” she said simply. The clink of glasses sounded louder than the fire. Later, when the conversation loosened and midnight crept closer, Sally sat back, listening more than speaking, content in a way that surprised even her. She felt… placed. Not replaced. Not displaced. Just expanded. Monday, they would drive back down the mountain, back toward Zurich. Tuesday would bring the doctor’s appointment, the checkups, the confirmations that made everything real. Then the flight home. Coral Gables. School. Responsibilities. The future. But tonight was still theirs. A new year waiting quietly at the door. A new life growing in Bridget. New projects, new hopes, new chapters already forming. And somewhere beneath it all, steady and undeniable, Oskar Weiss’s heart—small, strong, and very much alive. -- The waiting room of the Zurich clinic hadn’t changed, but Sally had. She stood straighter now, moved without a crutch, wore her black jeans and snow boots like armor instead of concession. But when Bridget gently said, “Darling, Dr. Huber has time to see you, too”—just after they’d checked in for Bridget’s prenatal appointment—Sally’s jaw had tightened. “You said it was just for Mom,” she muttered as they waited in the sleek hallway. “You didn’t say anything about me”. “We didn’t” Adrian admitted, his voice gentle but firm. “And we’re sorry. But you’ve been pushing yourself hard lately. And she had a slot. Just a quick check-in.” Sally crossed her arms, the rebellious teen just under the skin. But she didn’t argue further. She just followed when the black-suited receptionist called her name. Dr. Huber’s office hadn’t changed either. Still spare and quiet, still softened by orchids and mountain photos and a single well-worn pair of boots beneath the shelf. The Swiss Army theme was ever present, and Sally’s let her gaze rest on them momentarily. But Dr. Huber herself rose with a smile that was both professional and real, hands clasped in front of her coat. “Guten Morgen, Sally,” she said. “Bridget. Adrian. Congratulations again.” Bridget flushed with the quiet pride of the first trimester. Adrian gave a modest smile. Sally just nodded. “I didn’t know I was seeing you,” she said flatly. “I heard,” Dr. Huber replied without missing a beat. “Surprise visits are rarely our favorite. But let’s not waste it. This can be short. You’re stronger now—you’ll tell me if it’s too much.” Sally sighed, then dropped into the chair beside her mother’s. “Fine.” Dr. Huber smiled slightly. “That sounded like ‘yes’ in Teenager.” Bridget laughed softly. Adrian gave Sally’s shoulder a quick squeeze before excusing himself with Bridget, promising to return after. Once the door closed behind them, Dr. Huber pulled out her tablet, then looked up and truly studied Sally. The pause wasn’t for show—it was assessment, layered and silent. “You’ve grown stronger,” she said after a moment. “And not just physically. Let’s begin.” Vitals first. Sally’s blood pressure, pulse, and O₂ saturation—all steady. She tapped her heel against the exam chair’s footrest impatiently. “No shortness of breath lately?” Dr. Huber asked as she adjusted the pulse oximeter. “Nope,” Sally said. “Even after Verbier. We skied five days. I mean, my legs hated me after, but lungs were fine.” Dr. Huber gave a nod of approval. “Skiing is not exactly rehab-lite.” “Neither is tennis,” Sally added. “Or jogging.” Dr. Huber raised an eyebrow, amused. “So you’re testing the full range.” Sally shrugged. “It’s better than sitting around. I only get sore—not like injured sore. Just… ‘alive’ sore.” “Good distinction.” Dr. Huber tapped a note into her tablet. “Still no crutches, no cane?” “Not since month four. Maybe three and a half.” Dr. Huber smiled faintly. “Excellent. And the pneumonia—any relapses?” “Nope. Not even a cough since November.” “Scarring?” “Chest still aches sometimes when I’m cold. Or when I overdo it on hills. But it passes fast.” Dr. Huber nodded, already preparing the spirometer. “Let’s test your lungs. Deep breath, like before. And again.” Sally obeyed, grimacing but compliant. When the tests were done, Dr. Huber reviewed the numbers and looked up with something close to pride. “Better than I expected,” she said. “Scar tissue hasn’t compromised capacity. You’ve rebuilt beautifully.” Sally’s mouth twitched into a brief smile. “Guess my lungs caught up.” “Your whole system is catching up,” Dr. Huber said. “Any pain?” Sally hesitated. “After tennis. And skiing. Hips mostly. A little in my shins if I run too long.” “Muscle fatigue or joint?” “Mostly muscle. No swelling, no weird clicks or anything.” Dr. Huber tapped again. “That’s normal. You’re in the reconditioning window now—training, not healing. You’ll be sore. But if you recover quickly, you’re pacing it right.” Sally nodded. “Good. I don’t want to baby it.” “You’re not,” Dr. Huber said firmly. “You’re learning your new limits. They’re wider than most people’s. And—” she paused “—your period has returned?” Sally flushed faintly but nodded. “Last two cycles were totally normal.” “And the dreams?” “Gone.” A pause. Then: “The night wetting?” Dr. Huber asked gently. Sally looked down. “Still there. Most nights.” “Pads or protection?” “Still diapers,” Sally said with quiet defiance. “They work.” “Any distress about it?” Sally glanced up. “I’ve kind of… made peace with it. I don’t mind them. It’s just something that happens.” Dr. Huber nodded slowly, with a softness in her eyes. “Still the same kind?” Sally smirked faintly. “Same brand. I figured out what fits.” “Excellent,” Dr. Huber said with not a hint of irony. “Then you’ve solved for comfort, containment, and dignity. That’s mature care. I’m impressed.” Sally didn’t blush this time. She just sat up straighter. “I’ll run updated labs today—make sure your iron and vitamin D are where I want them,” Dr. Huber said, standing. “If your levels are good, we can drop to annual visits unless something changes.” Sally blinked. “Seriously?” “You’re not just surviving anymore, Sally. You’re living. Fully. There will still be setbacks—maybe more pain days, maybe a nightmare returns. But you’re writing your life again.” -- The door opened quietly and Adrian stepped in, coat folded over his arm, the other hand resting at his waist. He took in the room in one glance, then lifted his eyebrows. “Well?” he asked. Dr. Huber didn’t hesitate. “She passed. With honors.” Sally rolled her eyes on instinct, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “I’m fine,” she said. “Stronger. Just sore sometimes.” “Sore is allowed,” Dr. Huber replied. “Fragile is not the word anymore.” She glanced at Adrian. “She’s cleared for sports. And joy. And even a small amount of mischief.” Adrian’s smile came easily. “Paella again?” “Absolutely,” Dr. Huber said, amused. “She’s due for a refill.” Adrian laughed, the sound loosening something in the room. He turned to Sally and tilted his head toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go see your mom. She’s waiting for the good part.” -- The examination room was quiet in a way that felt intentional, almost reverent. Soft lighting pooled gently over pale wood floors. Frosted windows blurred the city into light and shadow, Zurich reduced to a hush. It didn’t feel like a clinic so much as a place where people were asked to be careful with their hearts. Sally sat rigid in the leather chair beside the exam table. Her back was straight, hands folded too neatly in her lap. Her mother lay reclined, silk blouse loosened just enough, one hand resting protectively over her stomach as if instinct had already taken over. Dr. Meier moved with unhurried precision, checking the ultrasound machine, adjusting settings. A nurse silently angled the monitor so it could be seen from both the table and the chair. “Would you like your daughter to see the scan as well?” the doctor asked, her voice low, respectful. Bridget didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” she said. Then, more quietly, “She should see him.” Sally didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed fixed on the blank screen, jaw tight. Her chest felt compressed, as if her body was bracing for impact. All the things she had read came rushing back—statistics, risks, words like advanced maternal age, complications, abnormalities. She had armed herself with knowledge when this pregnancy had still felt unreal, impossible. Knowledge had been her shield. Dr. Meier applied the warm gel and adjusted the probe. “You’re just past thirteen weeks,” she said. “So we’ll see quite a bit today.” Bridget nodded, her fingers tightening briefly around Adrian’s. He squeezed back, steady, present. The screen flickered. At first it was just shapes. Then lines. Then suddenly—form. A profile emerged. A small curve of forehead. A tiny arm, bent. A leg kicked, almost impatiently. “There he is,” Dr. Meier said. Sally inhaled sharply, the sound catching before she could stop it. Her throat tightened. “Oskar,” she said, barely above a breath. As if on cue, the baby shifted, stretching, and then the room filled with sound. Fast. Rhythmic. Insistent.   Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.   “That’s his heartbeat,” Dr. Meier said softly. “Strong and steady. One hundred fifty-six beats per minute. Exactly where we want it.” Sally stared at the screen. She didn’t blink. Her shoulders, which had been drawn tight for weeks, lowered a fraction. The sound went straight through her, not loud but undeniable. This wasn’t an idea. Or a disruption. Or a fear she could research her way out of. This was a person. This was Oskar. Dr. Meier continued, pointing gently. “Here’s the spine. See how straight it is. These are the hands—five fingers on each. You can see the diaphragm beginning to move.” Sally leaned forward without realizing she was doing it. “All organs are forming as expected,” the doctor went on. “No signs of fluid accumulation. Nuchal translucency is well within normal range.” She glanced at Bridget. “Early screening is clear. No chromosomal abnormalities detected. Everything we can see right now tells us this is a healthy baby boy.” Bridget closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they were wet. Adrian exhaled, a breath he had clearly been holding far too long. Then Dr. Meier turned to Sally. Not as an afterthought. Not politely. Directly. “Would you like to ask anything?” she said. “You’re part of this.” Sally swallowed. Her voice didn’t come out right away. “So… everything’s okay?” she finally asked. Dr. Meier nodded. “Everything looks beautiful.” Sally hesitated, then pressed on, because that was who she was. “And later? I mean… my mom’s age. That’s still… something, right?” “It’s something we monitor,” the doctor said gently. “But these results are excellent. And your mother is healthy. Calm. Supported. That matters more than people realize.” Sally looked at her mother then. Really looked. Bridget wasn’t glowing or triumphant. She looked human. Vulnerable. Strong in a quiet, unshowy way. Her hand rested over her stomach without thinking. Adrian reached over and squeezed Sally’s arm. “You okay?” he asked. Sally nodded, but when she spoke her voice was different. Softer. Stripped of its armor. “Yeah,” she said. “I think so.” She stared at the screen again, her eyes filling before she could stop it. “He has fingers,” she whispered. Bridget let out a small, broken laugh, tears slipping free. “Yes,” she said. “He does.” -- The drive home was quiet in a way that felt deliberate. Not awkward. Not hostile. Just… full. Snow residue and road salt streaked the sides of the Range Rover, dulling the black paint to a tired gray. Zurich slid past the windows in winter tones—orderly, calm, indifferent to whatever storms were unfolding inside the car. Sally sat in the back seat, forehead resting lightly against the glass. Her reflection stared back at her, unfocused. She answered when spoken to, nodded when appropriate, but something in her had gone inward and locked the door. Bridget noticed first. “Are you okay, darling?” she asked gently, not turning around. Sally shrugged. “Yeah. I’m fine.” But her voice was thin. Too controlled. Adrian caught Bridget’s eye. The look passed between them without words: she’s not fine. At home, Adrian parked the Range Rover in its usual spot, eyeing the grime with a resigned sigh. “This thing looks like it survived a rally stage,” he muttered. “Needs a proper wash.” Sally was already out of the car. She didn’t wait. Didn’t linger. She headed straight for the elevator and disappeared upstairs to her apartment without a word. Bridget watched the doors close, her unease growing. She gave it a few minutes—long enough to respect space, short enough to trust her instincts. Then she headed upstairs. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. “Sally?” Bridget called softly as she stepped inside. No answer. She followed the sound she hadn’t wanted to hear—the small, broken rhythm of breath being pulled in too fast, released too slow. Sally was curled on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself. Her face was buried in the pillow, but her shoulders shook. This wasn’t tidy crying. This was everything coming loose. Bridget crossed the room and sat on the bed without a word. She didn’t rush. She didn’t ask what was wrong. She just lay down beside her daughter and pulled her close. Sally broke. It came all at once, like a dam finally giving way. The kind of sobbing that steals breath, that hurts the ribs, that makes no sense in words. She clutched at her mother’s sweater, pressing her face into it as if anchoring herself to something solid. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she gasped between tears. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s… good. It’s all good. And I can’t stop—” Bridget stroked her hair, steady and patient. “Then don’t stop,” she murmured. “Let it come.” And it did. The car crash—metal folding, the sound of impact still lodged somewhere deep in her bones. The shock of waking up unbroken, the strange guilt of surviving so cleanly. Her grandfather—Oskar Weiss—who had never wanted to meet her and yet had left her a trust so vast it felt unreal, heavy, like a future she hadn’t asked for but now carried. Her mother’s gallbladder surgery. The hospital lights. The fear that had lived quietly behind every normal day afterward. Her faith—finding Christ not as a concept but as a presence, something that rearranged her from the inside out. The plane crash. The impact. The terror. The weeks of recovery. Pneumonia stealing her breath just when she’d thought the worst was over. Her parents’ wedding—beautiful, joyful, and terrifying in its finality. Things changing forever. And now— Oskar. A heartbeat on a screen. Fingers. A life growing quietly inside the woman holding her now. “I saw him,” Sally whispered hoarsely. “I actually saw him. And it just… it broke something open. I don’t know how to carry all of this, Mom. It’s too much. It’s all a miracle, and it hurts.” Bridget’s own eyes filled. She pressed her forehead to Sally’s hair. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s not something to carry alone.” They stayed like that for a long while. No fixing. No explanations. Just breathing together, letting the weight settle instead of fighting it. Eventually, footsteps echoed outside. The elevator doors slid open. Adrian stepped into the apartment, coat still on, brow furrowed. “Where did you two disappear to?” he called. Then, more lightly, “I was about to enlist Sally to wash the Range Rover. Consider it character building.” He stopped in the doorway. Took in the scene: his wife lying on the bed, holding their daughter, both of them tear-streaked and utterly spent. He exhaled and crossed the room without another word, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Well,” he said gently, “I see the wash will have to wait.” Sally let out a weak, watery laugh through her tears. “You’re impossible.” Adrian reached out and rested a hand on her back. “Maybe. But I was also thinking—after the wash, a round of tennis. Doctor approved. Emotional breakdown notwithstanding.” Bridget laughed softly, wiping her eyes. “Only you would follow a family catharsis with a tennis proposal.” “It’s how I process,” Adrian said mildly. “Movement. And soap.” Sally sniffed, then laughed for real this time, the sound shaky but genuine. The tears slowed. The room felt lighter. A family, gathered in the aftermath of a miracle—not composed, not untouched, but together. -- Sally nodded through her tears, wiping at her face with the back of her sleeve. Her eyes were red, her nose pink, but there was light in her smile again. “Only if you help wash the car,” she said, voice still uneven but playful, looking straight at her father. Adrian pretended to consider this with grave seriousness. He leaned back slightly, arms crossing. “Help? I was planning on supervising.” “Nice try,” Sally shot back. “You drive it. You wash it.” Bridget let out a soft laugh, the kind that still carried the echo of tears. “Fair is fair, Adrian.” Adrian sighed theatrically. “I am surrounded by strong women. This is my fate.” Then he pointed a finger at Sally. “But I draw the line at the wheels. Winter grime is a form of warfare.” Sally sniffed once more, then grinned wider. “Deal. I’ll take the wheels. I’ve survived worse.” Bridget shifted closer and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Sally’s ear. “You don’t have to survive everything alone anymore, you know.” Sally leaned into her, nodding. “I know. I’m just… learning how to stop bracing for impact.” Adrian reached over and squeezed both of their hands. “Good. Because the only impact scheduled for this family right now is a very small one. Due in June.” Sally laughed again, softer this time. “And apparently he already has excellent timing.” Bridget smiled, her hand instinctively resting over her stomach. “He takes after his sister.” For a moment, they stayed like that—close, tangled, imperfect. Outside, the Range Rover sat dirty and forgotten. Inside, something had been washed clean. -- The Range Rover ended up wetter than it had ever been in its dignified existence. Sally tied her hair back with a practiced motion and handed her father a bucket like she was issuing a tool in a pit lane. “Two-bucket system,” Sally said, stopping her father before he could dunk the cloth into whatever water happened to be closest. Her tone wasn’t bossy. It was instructional. Certain. “This one is clean soap. That one is rinse. You never mix them.” Adrian looked down at the buckets, then back at her. “Water is water.” “That’s how swirl marks are born,” Sally replied calmly. “And how paint loses the will to live.” Bridget watched from the terrace, cardigan wrapped tight, amused. “I’ve definitely created a monster.” Sally ignored the comment and crouched to point inside the second bucket. “See that plastic grid at the bottom? Grit guard. When you rinse the mitt, the dirt sinks and stays there. You don’t pick it back up and drag it across the paint like sandpaper.” She handed Adrian a microfiber wash mitt, not a sponge. “This matters too. Sponges trap grit on the surface. Microfiber pulls dirt up into the fibers. Think dust mop, not Brillo pad.” Adrian turned the mitt over in his hands. “You’ve researched this.” “I own a manual Ford Fiesta,” Sally said simply. “That’s basically a gateway drug.” She reached for the hose and rinsed the Range Rover slowly, methodically. “First, you rinse everything. Always. Loose dirt comes off before you ever touch the paint. Gentle pressure. You’re not pressure-washing a sidewalk.” Soap foam bloomed as she loaded the mitt in the first bucket. “And we start at the top. Roof first. Then glass. Then upper panels. Lower doors and bumpers last. They’re filthy. Washing bottom-up is how you smear road grit everywhere.” She demonstrated, moving the mitt in straight, deliberate lines. “No circles. Circles make circular scratches. The sun will expose them later, mercilessly. Straight lines are kinder. Easier to fix if something goes wrong.” Adrian followed her lead, slightly stiff at first, then more relaxed as the rhythm took over. “You sound like a surgeon.” “Paint remembers,” Sally said. “It’s emotional.” Bridget laughed. “That explains why the Range Rover looks offended most of the time.” After each section, Sally stopped her father. “Rinse the mitt. Really rinse it. Agitate it against the grit guard. Then back to soap. This is the entire point of having two buckets.” Water splashed everywhere. At some point Sally redirected the hose just enough to soak Adrian’s sleeve. “That was intentional,” he accused. “Statistically inevitable,” she said, straight-faced. He retaliated poorly, spraying wide and missing entirely. The result was less a car wash and more a cheerful, inefficient baptism. When they reached the wheels, Sally blocked him again. “Separate ecosystem. Brake dust is metallic and abrasive. It does not touch paint. Ever. Different tools. Different water.” Adrian held up his hands. “Understood. The wheels are… hostile.” They rinsed thoroughly, then Sally grabbed a large microfiber drying towel. “You dry immediately. Air-drying leaves mineral spots. Pat or gently drag. No grinding.” By the time they were done, the Range Rover gleamed—honestly, evenly, without the faint scars of rushed care. Both buckets were murky, the soap bucket noticeably less so. Sally stepped back, assessing. “There. Clean. And not secretly damaged.” Adrian exhaled. “I will never again think of washing a car as a casual activity.” “Good,” Sally said. “It shouldn’t be. Roberto knows.” Bridget smiled at them both. “So… tennis?” Sally grinned. “After. Let the car rest.” By the time they were done, the car gleamed unevenly, and all three of them were damp, cold, and smiling. “Approved,” Sally declared. “Next time we wax.” Adrian groaned. “I’m hiring professionals.” After warm showers and dry clothes, tennis followed. Sally let her father dictate the pace, watching his knees carefully. “No hero moves,” she warned. “Doctor’s orders.” “I resent that,” Adrian said, bouncing the ball gently. “I am still capable of elegance.” “Then demonstrate it slowly.” They rallied easily at first, the sound of the ball echoing cleanly in the court. Sally stretched her legs, felt the familiar burn, the good kind. Adrian surprised her with a few well-placed shots, then wisely backed off before ambition could outpace cartilage. “That’s enough,” Sally said finally. “You’ve made your point. I’ll run. You supervise.” Adrian raised his racquet in surrender. “Fair.” -- Dinner wasn’t really dinner. It was raclette—cheese melting, potatoes steaming, pickles scattered across the table like afterthoughts. “This,” Bridget said, “is Swiss problem-solving food.” Adrian speared a potato. “I’m trying to picture a baby seat in the M5.” “Impossible,” Sally said immediately. “That car is morally opposed to babies.” Bridget smiled. “What about the GLE? I can lift things… I think.” “We’ll need fencing around the pool,” Adrian mused. “Cabinet locks. Stair gates.” “And corner guards,” Sally added. “Everything has corners.” They paused, looking at each other, then laughed at how thoroughly Oskar had already rearranged their mental furniture. That night, Sally lay wrapped in her bed, cocooned in her Christmas footed pajamas, diaper crinkling softly around her waist, the house quiet around her. The mountains were behind her now. Miami waited ahead. Sunshine, warmth, normal life—at least the version they were learning to live. She closed her eyes feeling safe, grounded, and oddly excited for what came next. -- Sally smiled at the message glowing on her phone.   Mom: Don’t stay in bed too long. Remember you have to pack your own bags. Breakfast ready in 20 minutes.   She rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow, entirely unbothered by the warning. She’d been awake for nearly two hours already, drifting between half-sleep and the soft glow of conversations. She had taken her warm footed pajamas off and pulled on a worn t-shirt, and resorted to lying on the bed in her diaper, wet from the night – and getting wetter. Her friends in the States had filled the night while she slept; now it was her turn to answer while they were fading back into dreams. Her phone buzzed again. Patricia. Sally was face down on the bed, toes idly kicking the duvet, thumbs moving as she explained the doctor’s visit in careful, quiet sentences. Everything’s good. Really good. I saw him. I saw Oskar. He’s real. The door opened without ceremony. “Morning, honey,” Bridget said, leaning against the frame. “Just checking you got my message. I see you’ve had plenty of time to write to everybody else except me.” Her hands rested on her hips, but her mouth betrayed her with a smile. Sally groaned theatrically and rolled onto her back, diaper crinkling and t-shirt riding up her midriff. “I was going to tell you in person. Jana already reminded me I’d be packing myself.” Bridget arched an eyebrow. “Did she.” “She even sent a list,” Sally added, frowning. “Like, an actual list. Categories and everything.” “That’s… efficient,” Bridget said, amused. Sally sighed and pushed herself upright, hair falling into her face. “I do have a full closet here. And one in Florida. And technically a drawer in Milan – Erika says.” She paused. “But there are still things I need to add to my traveling collection.” Bridget tilted her head. “Such as?” Sally slid off the bed and crinkled across the room, motioning for her mother to follow. She stopped in front of the closet, pulled the door open, and gestured inside with mock gravity. “First of all,” she said, “I need a dedicated ‘planes-that-are-not-dad’s-jet’ outfit section.” Bridget laughed. “Of course you do.” “And,” Sally continued, reaching for a hanger, “things that work in snow and Miami. Which is harder than it sounds. And I’m missing a hoodie that smells like home, not airports.” She turned back to her mother, smiling now, bright and unguarded. “Also, I need to bring the pink ski gloves. For morale.” Bridget stepped closer, resting a hand on the closet door. “You’re going to be just fine,” she said softly. “In Miami. Anywhere.” Sally nodded, suddenly thoughtful. “I know.” Then she grinned. “But I still want breakfast first.” “Twenty minutes,” Bridget reminded her, tapping the door lightly before turning away. “Get that diaper off and get presentable”. Sally watched her go, then glanced back at the open closet, already mentally sorting piles. Returning to Miami suddenly felt real. And manageable. -- Black leggings, a loose blue cashmere sweater, white-and-yellow sneakers, and her black Casio watch. Comfortable, yes—but deliberate. Sally caught her reflection in the mirror and tilted her head. Her mother had suggested something a little less airport, a little more lunch-appropriate. This was her compromise. She grabbed her phone and padded downstairs. She was already halfway through a bowl of Frosties by the time anyone else appeared. Sugary. Loudly artificial. Entirely intentional. It wasn’t her usual breakfast, and that was the point. Mia had stocked the pantry “just in case,” a phrase Sally had never quite understood until that moment. Eating cereal straight from the box with cold milk felt like a small, harmless rebellion. And her parents were still dragging their feet, so she’d decided breakfast was a solo operation. “I smell zero coffee,” Adrian grumbled, rolling a suitcase into the kitchen like a disgruntled stagehand. “Morning, Dad,” Sally said brightly, spoon mid-air. She leaned over the counter to offer her cheek as he bent down. “Coffee will happen as soon as I finish my dose of sugar.” “Morgen, Wunderschön,” he murmured, kissing her. He eyed the bowl. “Sugar for breakfast?” “It has milk,” Sally reasoned calmly. “And I was unattended. No service today. So I went self-service.” Adrian shook his head, amused. “I applaud your independence.” “I’ve had worse,” Sally said, taking another spoonful with exaggerated seriousness. She rinsed the bowl and slid it into the dishwasher with a decisive click. “Mom says we’re having lunch somewhere special?” she called over her shoulder. “Madrid,” Adrian replied. Sally froze. She turned slowly. “Madrid.” “Yes.” “Like… Spain?” she asked, blinking. “Because I know it’s technically on the way to Miami, but—” Adrian cracked a smile. “A Spanish restaurant. Madrid. Downtown. Paella. Doctor’s orders, remember?” Realization hit. “Oh. Restaurant Madrid. Right.” She groaned. “For a second I thought you were finally taking me to Spain.” “Soon,” Adrian said lightly. “You can visit your Catalan friends.” “Dad,” Sally warned, already rolling her eyes. Bridget entered the kitchen just in time to catch the tail end of it, surveying the scene: Sally at the coffee machine now, Adrian leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. “Is anyone going to Spain?” she asked innocently. “Someday,” Adrian said. “Soon.” Bridget smiled, a little too knowingly. “They did seem quite eager for your attention.” Sally’s head snapped up. “Mom. Not you too.” Bridget shrugged. “I’m just observing.” “Seriously,” Sally said, exasperated but laughing. “Are you two going to match me with every boy I make eye contact with?” Adrian raised his hands. “We’re merely appreciating your social skills.” Sally poured the coffee with exaggerated care. “I’m fifteen. I just want lunch, not an arranged future.” Bridget laughed, reaching for a mug. “Relax. We’re just teasing.” Sally took her first sip of coffee and sighed. “Good. Because if this continues, I’m eating Frosties for lunch too.” -- Restaurant Madrid announced itself without trying too hard. Warm terracotta tones, dark wood, ceramic plates lining the walls, the faint scent of saffron and olive oil already doing half the work before anyone sat down. It was unmistakably Spanish in its food and textures, but the atmosphere was restrained—voices low, tables spaced just enough, service attentive without hovering. Swiss-Spanish, Sally decided. She liked that. She slid into her chair and glanced around, taking it in. Switzerland had a way of making even indulgence feel orderly. Private. She appreciated that. Miami, oddly enough, offered her much of the same—perhaps because everyone there was someone, which made anonymity easier to come by. Adrian didn’t bother opening the menu for long. “We’ll start with a few things,” he said, already signaling the waiter. “Light.” Bridget gave him a look. “Your definition of ‘light’ is suspicious.” Sally smirked. “I trust him. Mostly.” The first plates arrived quickly. Jamón ibérico, thin as silk, arranged with reverence. Pan con tomate, the bread still warm, the tomato bright and fresh, olive oil catching the light. A small dish of marinated olives—green, firm, citrusy. Croquetas, golden and unapologetically crisp. “Just one,” Adrian said, sliding a croqueta onto Sally’s plate. She raised an eyebrow. “You said light.” “This is light,” he insisted. “It’s mostly air.” Sally bit into it and closed her eyes despite herself. “That is a lie,” she said. “A delicious one.” Bridget laughed as Sally reached for the bread, rubbing tomato into it with practiced confidence. “You’re getting very good at that.” “I’ve had training,” Sally said seriously. “Barcelona-adjacent.” The waiter returned with the paella, and conversation paused out of respect. The pan was wide and shallow, rice perfectly caramelized at the edges, seafood arranged with quiet confidence—prawns, mussels, clams, the scent of saffron rising with the steam. Adrian looked pleased in a way that suggested he’d been thinking about this moment since breakfast. Sally stared at it. “This is not light.” “This is necessary,” Adrian replied. She ate with focus at first, determined, spoon cutting through rice and seafood, savoring each bite. It was rich without being heavy, deeply flavored, balanced. The kind of dish that made you slow down without asking. Halfway through, she leaned back slightly. “I may have miscalculated.” Bridget smiled knowingly. “You always do.” Sally tried again. Three more bites. Then she stopped, defeated. “I surrender. Temporarily.” Adrian studied her plate. “Respectable effort.” “But,” Sally added, eyes flicking to the dessert menu, “I do have a separate stomach.” Bridget laughed. “Of course you do.” “Crema Catalana,” Sally said without hesitation. Adrian arched an eyebrow. “Catalan?” Sally shrugged. “Maybe it’s a tribute. Maybe it’s destiny.” The dessert arrived crackling, the caramelized sugar top perfectly torched. Sally tapped it lightly with her spoon, smiling at the sharp crack before breaking through. The custard beneath was cool, citrus-kissed, impossibly smooth. She took one spoonful and froze. “Oh,” she said softly. Bridget watched her with amusement. “That good?” Sally nodded, chewing slowly, reverently. “This might be the best dessert I’ve had in ages.” Adrian leaned back, satisfied. “Doctor’s orders,” he said. “Paella and proper dessert. Very healing.” Sally finished every last spoonful, then leaned back in her chair, content, a little drowsy, entirely at peace. “Okay,” she said finally. “You win. Spain can stay here. For now.” -- Sally almost felt bad for Nitaya. When she stepped into the Gulfstream G700, Sally had already decided she wanted nothing more than her cold Vichy Catalan. No snacks, , no Pringles, no carefully plated temptations, no “just in case.” Her stomach was full, her body tired in a good way, and her mind ready for that particular kind of half-sleep that only happens at altitude. Nitaya noticed immediately. “Nothing to eat for now?” she asked softly, already knowing the answer. Sally smiled apologetically. “I swear I’m not being difficult. I just… reached capacity. Entirely.” Nitaya laughed under her breath. “After Spanish food, that’s understandable.” She set the chilled bottle gently on the side table. “I’ll keep an eye on you.” From the cockpit doorway, Captain Henderson appeared, broad smile, familiar ease. First Officer Gruber gave a nod from behind him. “Miss Weiss,” Henderson said, stepping fully into the cabin. “I hear you had a decent flight on Swiss before Christmas.” Sally blinked. “Decent?” She smiled despite herself. “It was very nice.” He chuckled. “That’s not what Klaus Singer told me. He said you were a pleasure to have on board. His words: ‘Model VIP. Crew favorite.’” Sally felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Oh no. They’re exaggerating. They treated me like royalty. I just tried not to get in the way.” Nitaya inclined her head slightly, amused. “Swiss First Class isn’t too shabby,” Henderson said. “Glad you enjoyed it.” Sally nodded, thoughtful. “You set a very high bar,” she admitted. “It’s hard not to compare. But… yes. All things considered, it was really special.” Henderson smiled, pleased but not smug. “Good. That’s how it should be.” He tipped his head toward Nitaya. “We’ll try not to disappoint you today.” “You never do,” Sally said honestly. With that, he disappeared back into the cockpit. Soon, her parents settled into the rear club seats, voices low, familiar, safe. Sally took her place in one of the forward captain’s chairs, alone but not lonely, buckling in with practiced ease. The taxi always did it to her—that quiet tightening in her chest, the sense of movement beginning, potential unfolding. Even now, even after everything, it thrilled her. Rain streaked across the windows as the G700 rolled forward. Engines deepened. Power gathered. As they accelerated, Sally leaned back, heart steady, body relaxed, and felt the jet lift cleanly into the grey Zurich sky. The city vanished quickly, swallowed by cloud, the last shapes of rooftops and lights dissolving into white. Then—light. They broke through the clouds into a clear, bright European afternoon, sunlight flooding the cabin as if someone had drawn back a curtain. Sally exhaled, long and slow, fingers closing lightly around the cool glass bottle beside her. Time to rest. -- Sally did the math in her head without even trying anymore. It had become second nature. They’d left Zurich at fourteen hundred. That put them into Miami around five in the afternoon, local time. Nine hours, give or take. A long afternoon suspended between continents. She unbuckled and stood, stretching lightly, then crossed the quiet length of the cabin. Her mother noticed immediately and smiled, tapping the seat in front of her. Adrian looked up from his laptop, closed it, and leaned back. “No siesta?” he teased. “Yes siesta,” Sally replied, lips curving. “But I need a bathroom stop first.” She hesitated, then added with a crooked smile, “A strategic one.” Bridget’s expression softened in that way that always meant she understood before anything was said. “And some protection, honey?” Sally blinked. Right. She hadn’t thought that part through. “Crap,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m wearing leggings.” Adrian, to his credit, turned his attention deliberately to the window. Bridget, equally deliberately, didn’t. “It’s a long sweater,” Bridget said calmly. “That helps. And a thin blanket if you want. You’ll be fine.” Sally nodded, pressing her lips together. She was fine. Truly. This wasn’t a crisis. Just logistics. “Are we good for supplies?” Bridget asked gently. Sally nodded. “Nitaya has me covered. There’s a whole package under the bed.” She smirked. “Don’t tell Dad.” Adrian turned, already smiling. “I’m not filtering because I’m uncomfortable,” he said mildly. “I’m filtering because it’s not an issue. Big difference.” Then, with a glint in his eye, he added, “Besides, you look cute in them.” Sally laughed, shaking her head. “Thank you, Dad. I’ll feel much better once I come out of that bathroom fully committed to sleep mode.” Bridget’s hand squeezed hers, warm and grounding. “You do look cute,” she murmured, her eyes holding a knowing glint. “Now go. We aren’t going anywhere.” Sally turned toward the lavatory, feeling a sudden, giddy lightness. It wasn’t just the altitude; it was the intoxicating safety of being truly seen. But as the door clicked shut, the sentimental warmth shifted into a sharp, private thrill. It was time for the real deal. The plush surroundings of the G700 faded as she slid her leggings and cotton panties down. Her skin prickled in the cool cabin air before she stepped into the diaper. She smoothed the plastic backing with practiced fingers, pulling the tapes until they were snug—perfectly firm against her hips. She took a moment to ensure the leg gathers were tucked just right, a hidden embrace that felt both functional and wonderful. She layered the panties back on to slick the silhouette, then fought the tight stretch of her leggings back into place. The fit was undeniable; the added bulk felt heavy and obvious against her thighs, a secret weight she’d have to carry through the cabin. Finally, she let the hem of her blue cashmere sweater fall. It draped over her hips, soft and deceptively innocent. Discreet. Mostly. A soft sigh escaped her as her shoulders finally slumped. She was forty thousand feet in the air, wrapped in luxury, and wearing a secret that made her pulse race. She was home. -- Sally ended up stretched along the sofa, feet tucked under her, the cabin settling into its long, quiet rhythm. With a soft whir, the television slid up from the cabinet. She switched it on and scrolled through her YouTube feed, searching for something that didn’t demand much of her—something familiar, steady. A racing documentary caught her eye. Of course it did. Her diaper sat snug beneath her leggings, noticeable but not uncomfortable, and the long sweater did enough to let her forget about it. That, more than anything, gave her permission to rest. To stop monitoring herself. To let go for a while. Doctor Huber’s voice floated back to her—practical, reassuring. You’re being smart about it. Kind to yourself. She shifted slightly, settling in. Later, she told herself. I’ll deal with later later. Since getting her learner’s permit, her attention had developed a bias: engines, tracks, hands on steering wheels, braking points. Cars had become less fantasy and more language. She slipped on her noise-canceling headphones—not because the jet was loud, but because silence helped her think—and let the low, controlled sounds of commentary and engines wash over her. At some point, thinking softened into drifting. She fell asleep curled on her side, one knee drawn up, headphones pressed awkwardly between her ear and the cushion. She didn’t stir when Bridget rose quietly, didn’t register the gentle removal of the headphones or the thin blanket settling over her waist, hiding the white plastic peeking out of her leggings. She only sighed faintly and shifted, instinctively cooperating with comfort. Bridget stood there for a moment longer than necessary. Her hand hovered, then brushed Sally’s hair back from her face. The sight of her daughter asleep—unguarded, peaceful—hit her with a fullness she hadn’t expected. One child resting within her line of sight. Another growing silently within her. The thought tightened her chest in the best possible way. Adrian caught her eye and nodded toward the rear of the jet. Go rest. She hesitated only a second before following, carrying the moment with her. Adrian remained where he was, pausing his work just long enough to take it in—the quiet cabin, the steady flight, his daughter asleep under a blanket like she’d always belonged there. Then his fingers returned to the keyboard, the soft clack of keys blending into the hum of the engines as the jet carried his family home. -- Sally dropped into the seat beside her father with a soft thump, knees tucked up, peering at his screen. “You’re shopping for yachts?” she asked, incredulous. Adrian didn’t look up right away. His brow was furrowed in that familiar way that meant he was half-thinking, half-daydreaming. “Browsing,” he corrected mildly. “We have a dock. It feels rude not to acknowledge it.” Sally leaned closer, squinting at glossy photos of impossibly clean decks and suspiciously happy people. “Just… not Flying Fox big, please. The neighbors would revolt. HOA meetings would turn violent.” Adrian smirked. “Seventy meters is a bit much for Old Cutler Bay.” “Seventy feet is plenty,” Sally countered. “Anything bigger and you need staff with earpieces.” “As opposed to staff without earpieces?” “Exactly.” She shifted in her seat, stretching her legs. Her wet diaper was pressing between her legs, courtesy of the tight leggings. She didn’t mind the feeling, and appreciated the fact that it prevented her diaper from sagging. She considered the bathroom, then dismissed the idea. Crossing the rear bedroom would mean disturbing her mother, and for once she was in no rush.  “Coffee, Miss Weiss?” Nitaya asked, appearing as if summoned by the word browsing. “Yes, please,” Sally said, instantly formal again. Nitaya placed two cups on the table—one for Sally, one for Adrian—and added a small platter of chocolates. “Swiss,” she said with a wink. “For balance.” “Important,” Adrian nodded gravely. Sally took a sip and sighed. “Okay. So. What are we looking at?” Adrian angled the screen toward her. “Seventy-foot range. Manageable. Three cabins. Shallow enough draft for the Bahamas.” “Seventy feet means you can dock almost anywhere,” Sally said, warming to the topic. “And you can still run it without a full crew. Captain, maybe one deckhand.” “Or no captain,” Adrian teased. “Eventually.” Sally raised an eyebrow. “Let’s not traumatize the insurance company just yet.” Adrian chuckled. “A hundred feet gives you more autonomy. More fuel, more storage. A proper office.” “You already have three offices,” Sally pointed out. “One floats. One flies. One pretends to be a house.” “Yes, but none of them are in the Exumas.” Sally considered that. “Counterpoint: seventy feet is cozier. You don’t get lost. You can actually find your daughter.” “I can already find you,” Adrian said dryly. “That’s because I make noise.” She leaned back, thoughtful. “Also, seventy feet feels like family. A hundred feet feels like… a strategy.” Adrian laughed at that, genuinely. “You’ve been around yachts too long.” “Blame the Flying Fox. It skewed my sense of scale. I thought jet skis were cars.” They both glanced at a photo of a sleek aft deck, sun loungers lined up just so. “So,” Adrian said. “Office in the Bahamas?” Sally grinned. “Only if I can homeschool from Saint Lucia for a semester.” “Very specific.” “I like trade winds.” Adrian sipped his coffee, eyes still on the screen. “Seventy feet,” he said slowly. “Enough to escape. Not enough to disappear.” Sally nodded, satisfied. “That’s the sweet spot.” The jet carried on westward, steady and unhurried, while father and daughter argued happily over boats they didn’t need but already loved. Adrian leaned back, eyes drifting from the screen to the oval window, as if the Alps might still be there if he looked hard enough. “You know,” he said, almost to himself, “when I was a kid, yachting wasn’t exactly… spontaneous.” Sally tilted her head. “Meaning?” “Meaning we’d pack the car in Zurich like we were fleeing the country,” he said, a faint smile forming. “Drive for hours. Gotthard, traffic, tunnels, trucks. Then all the way down to La Spezia. By the time we saw the sea, we were already tired.” “But excited,” Sally guessed. “Very,” Adrian nodded. “That smell—salt, diesel, hot rope. It felt earned. Nothing was handed to you. If the weather turned, you waited. If something broke, you fixed it. Or you didn’t sail.” Sally smiled. “Sounds very… character-building.” “It was,” he said. “Also very inconvenient.” He glanced back at the yacht listing. “Having a dock changes everything. You wake up, walk down, and go. No pilgrimage required.” Sally hummed thoughtfully. “So this is about efficiency.” “And nostalgia,” Adrian admitted. “Just… upgraded.” She tapped the screen lightly. “Seventy feet of healing childhood inconvenience.” Adrian laughed, low and warm. “Something like that.” -- “I knew it,” Bridget said calmly, the way only someone very sure of her footing could. She stepped out of the bedroom, hair loosely tied, one hand smoothing the front of her sweater as she crossed the cabin and sat opposite Adrian. “At some point, the two of you were going to start discussing large, floating objects without consulting me.” Sally looked up at once. “He started it.” Adrian raised an eyebrow. “She encouraged it.” Bridget’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “And I approve.” She held up a finger before either of them could celebrate. “But first—” her gaze shifted to Sally, assessing with motherly precision “—bathroom.” Sally froze. “What?” “You’re fidgeting,” Bridget said gently. “That wet itchy diaper kind. The one where you pretend you’re fine and start reorganizing imaginary things in your head.” Adrian cleared his throat and very deliberately focused on his coffee. Sally sighed, shoulders dropping. “I was going to go in a minute.” “Mm-hm,” Bridget replied. “And a minute would have turned into an uncomfortable half hour. Go.” Sally rolled her eyes, but there was no real protest. “You two better not pick a yacht while I’m gone.” Adrian smiled innocently. “We’ll keep it under eighty feet.” “That’s not reassuring,” Sally called over her shoulder as she headed to the back of the jet. Bridget watched her disappear into the bathroom, then turned back to Adrian, lowering her voice just a touch. “She’s doing so well,” she said softly. “But she still carries more than she should.” Adrian nodded. “She always has.” -- Sally finally felt human again. The small ritual mattered more than she liked to admit. The used diaper gone, hands washed, face cooled with water, hair smoothed back into something intentional. Leggings back up, the long sweater falling just right. Not fixed—just reset. Enough to breathe. She drifted forward again, lighter now, and Nitaya caught her eye immediately. “Feeling better?” Nitaya asked softly, already offering a small tray. “Much,” Sally smiled. “I was overdue for that reset.” “Snacks?” Nitaya suggested. “Something light before descent.” “Yes, please,” Sally said, accepting the plate and perching briefly at the table before curiosity pulled her forward again. She leaned into the cockpit doorway, careful not to cross the invisible line. Captain Henderson glanced back and smiled. “Welcome back to the land of the awake.” First Officer Gruber turned slightly in his seat. “Feeling refreshed?” “Officially functional,” Sally replied. “Which I think is the goal.” Captain Henderson chuckled. “We’ll take functional. Twenty minutes to Miami. Smooth ride all the way down.” Sally looked out through the windshield, the horizon already tilting subtly. “Looks… peaceful.” “It’s a good time of day,” Gruber said. “Late light. Makes everyone think a little.” Sally nodded. “I do that anyway.” She lingered a second longer, then stepped back as the cockpit returned to its quiet choreography. Back at her seat, she watched the descent unfold. The Atlantic stretched beneath them, slate-blue and calm, dotted with ships that looked almost still from above. Closer to shore, the water shifted color—green, then turquoise—interrupted by wakes and marinas and long fingers of land reaching into the sea. She spotted yachts. Not the outrageous ones. The real ones. Working ones. Living ones. Someday, she thought. Not as an escape—but as a rhythm. One foot resting, the other engaged. Charts, conversations, decisions. Quiet mornings. Long horizons. The jet banked gently, Miami rising to meet them in gold and glass. Sally leaned back, grounded, present, and—finally—at ease. -- “Hey, kiddo!” Theresa’s voice cut through the hum of the ramp, familiar and warm. She wrapped Sally into a tight hug, the kind that didn’t ask questions first. “What a Christmas, huh?” Sally nodded into her shoulder, letting herself stay there a second longer than usual. “It was… intense,” she said honestly, then pulled back and added, “But good.” The rest went unsaid. For now. Theresa studied her face the way she always did—quick scan, subtle nod. “You look taller,” she decided. “Or steadier. Hard to tell with you.” “Both,” Sally replied, half-smiling. Behind them, the scene unfolded with quiet efficiency. The grey Gulfstream G700 rested on the apron like it belonged there. Porters rolled suitcases toward two waiting cars: Adrian’s BMW M5, dark and purposeful, and Sally’s Ford Fiesta, modest, clean, unmistakably hers. Jana supervised with her usual calm precision, checking tags, redirecting a bag with a glance. Theresa followed Sally’s gaze. “Your chariot awaits.” She tilted her head. “Feel like driving?” Sally didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.” Then, softer, almost to herself: “I’ve missed driving.” Adrian and Bridget were already settling into the BMW. Bridget caught Sally’s eye through the windshield and gave her a small wave, her smile relaxed, unburdened. Adrian raised two fingers in a casual salute as the M5 eased forward. Sally slid into the driver’s seat of the Fiesta, adjusting it instinctively, hands finding the wheel like it had been waiting for her. Theresa took the passenger seat without ceremony. Jana climbed into the back, silent, observant, already buckled. “Okay,” Theresa said lightly. “No rush. Just get us home.” The Fiesta rolled forward, smooth and unassuming. Sally kept her movements deliberate—clutch, throttle, mirrors. The airport road opened ahead, Miami light spilling across the pavement. “Easy on the throttle,” Theresa murmured once, more reminder than correction. “Got it.” Traffic thickened, then loosened. Sally merged cleanly, held her lane, anticipated lights before they changed. No drama. No show. Jana said nothing for a long stretch. They turned onto Solano Prado, the familiar curve of the street settling around them. Sally eased off the gas, guided the car toward home, and parked with quiet precision. Theresa glanced at her, impressed but unsurprised. “Nice.” Jana finally spoke, her voice measured. “Cool driver.” Sally exhaled, a small, satisfied smile crossing her face. -- By evening, the house had settled into its familiar Miami rhythm, as if it had been patiently waiting for them to return. Switzerland felt already folded into memory—snow, woodsmoke, mountains—beautiful, but done. Here it was seventy-five degrees, soft air, palm leaves barely stirring. Sally had changed into loose lounge shorts and a faded t-shirt, barefoot on the stone by the pool. Not swimming. Just sitting at the edge, letting her feet trail into the water, feeling the cool ripple against her skin. Adrian leaned back in a chair with a glass of iced tea, jacket abandoned somewhere inside. Bridget sat nearby, wrapped in a light shawl, one hand absently resting where Oskar would soon make his presence known. They talked without urgency. About unpacking. About school schedules. About nothing, really. Every now and then the conversation drifted back to practicalities—doctor appointments, baby-proofing, calendars shifting—but it no longer felt heavy. Just real. The sky deepened from gold to blue, then toward darkness. The pool lights flicked on automatically, casting soft reflections across the water. Sally watched them, quiet and content, the weight of everything finally settling—not pressing down, just anchoring her. She took a sip of iced tea, breathed in the warm air, and smiled. There was a lot ahead. But for now, they were home.

Rei blushed “Umm I don’t think I did I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast.” Before looking down at her overalls “maybe just being in just my diapee wouldn’t be too bad