Spanking

Because sleep is overrated and my creativity hasn't shut off since getting in from work this evening, a mid- week gift for everyone.   Chapter Sixty-Two: The Florida sun hit different after bad news. The concrete of the medical plaza shimmered. A breeze moved the palm fronds in a slow, lazy salute that felt almost mocking. In the parking garage, Bryan’s convertible waited in their usual spot, teal paint catching what little light filtered through the levels. It looked wrong now—too carefree, too much like a life from three weeks ago when “protection” meant shoulder pads, not plastic pants. Paul stopped a few feet from it, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped. His face was carefully blank, the kind of blank that comes from holding an expression in place too long. “You wanna drive?” Bryan asked, the automatic question he always asked, the ritual that said you’re growing up. Paul didn’t look at him. “Not today.” Bryan didn’t push. He just nodded once, took the keys gently from Paul’s hand, and moved to the driver’s side. Lilly circled to the back door instead of her usual passenger seat, sliding in beside Paul like it was the most natural thing in the world. The engine turned over, smooth and soft. The radio came on low, some acoustic cover of a pop song that immediately felt disrespectful. Bryan thumbed the volume down until it was a ghost of itself and steered them out into the spill of late-afternoon traffic. For a while, no one spoke. Bryan drove with his jaw tight, and his fingers wrapped so hard around the wheel that the knuckles paled. It wasn’t anger; it was the stubborn effort of a man trying to hold together a vision of the future that kept falling apart in his hands. Not a phase. Not just stress. Mindy’s voice filled the spaces between billboards and lanes. A chronic instability in the nerves controlling the bladder and other muscles. We can’t cure it. We can only manage it. Protect him. Use regression, when appropriate, as a tool—never a punishment. He could still see her sitting on the edge of her chair, image of calm competence, her cartoon-printed lab coat at odds with what she’d just laid out on the screen. Charts. Nerve conduction graphs. The EMG summary that had felt like a verdict. He’s not legally an adult in the medical sense ‘til at least twenty-one, she’d said gently. If you all agree, I’d like to continue as his primary. He knows us. We know him. We can ensure the care and comfort he needs right now. Bryan had managed a nod then. It made sense. He’d agreed. What else could he do? Now, weaving through lanes on JTB, the acceptance turned sour in his mouth, tinged with something like grief. Not for Paul’s life—his boy was alive, breathing, here—but for every quiet assumption he’d ever made that adulthood would mean independence, that his son would stride forward unencumbered. From the back seat, he heard the soft slide of fabric. Lilly had shifted closer to Paul, her knee just touching his. Paul stared out the window, watching the highway landscape smear by—car dealerships, billboards, the glint of a retention pond. His reflection looked back at him: almost-eighteen, jawline sharper than he felt, eyes too old for his face. His stomach clenched. His hand twitched in his lap, wanting to tug at his shirt, to check the waistband of his Step In the way he’d been doing obsessively since Friday. He forced it still. His mind snapped back to the office, to the way Mindy had folded her hands and leaned forward slightly, eyes kind but unflinching. “Paul,” she’d said, “can you describe what parts of the regression you experienced helped you feel better?” It was like she’d spun the cylinder on a revolver, put it in his hand, and asked him to pull the trigger on what little dignity he had left. He’d shrugged, staring somewhere between her desk and the floor. “I don’t know,” he’d muttered. “Maybe ‘cause it made me feel fuzzy.” Mindy’s face hadn’t shifted, but something in the air had—Lilly’s breath catching quietly beside him, Bryan’s knee bouncing once, clamping still. “Fuzzy how?” Mindy had asked gently. Paul had kept his eyes down. “Just… fuzzy,” he’d said. “Like… whatever.” Nobody in that room bought it. But nobody forced it, either. The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was full of held questions and the understanding that if they pushed too hard, he’d bolt. Mindy had waited a beat, then shifted tactics, her peds instincts kicking in. “Okay,” she’d said, looking to Bryan. “Dad, let me ask you. From your vantage point, what do you think Paul benefited from when he regressed?” Bryan had straightened, surprised to be pulled in, but grateful for something he could do. He’d cleared his throat. “Honestly?” he’d said. “It’s… the pacifier. At first I thought it was—” he’d glanced at Paul apologetically “—just a prop. But watching him… with it, he calmed down. His breathing changed. Focused. I saw it here, and Kim mentioned it, too. She said he used it as a tool, not… not like a baby accessory.” Mindy had turned back to Paul. “Would you say your dad’s right?” The room had seemed to tilt, just a little, toward him. For the first time all afternoon, the choice felt like it was his. He’d swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. As much as he hated the image of it, he couldn’t deny the truth. “Yeah,” he’d said quietly. “It… helps. At Kim’s I had it clipped to me all the time. I don’t know, it was… just in case. Like if I needed a break and couldn’t… say it.” His fingers had made an unconscious motion at his chest, curling and uncurling. Mindy’s gaze had warmed. “That makes a lot of sense,” she’d said. “Kim also told me you ate like a champ there. Even the kale.” She’d smiled. “What does she know that the rest of us don’t?” Color had flared high in his cheeks as flashes of bibs and spoonfuls and Kim’s singsong praise collided in his head. He remembered laughing with a mouthful of mashed sweet potato, remembered the way his body had melted at stupid phrases he’d hate if anyone else heard them. “They just… took the pressure off,” he’d said, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “Like, it wasn’t this… thing I had to perform. They made it fun but not… like a game show. They weren’t watching every bite. More… cheering ‘em on.” He’d grimaced. “If that makes sense.” “It does,” Mindy had said. “But I don’t think it’s just Kim’s cooking working miracles.” Paul had opened his mouth to argue and surprised himself instead. “Savannah’s, too,” he’d blurted. “She helped. It was… nice.” He hadn’t meant to say her name. The second it left his tongue, his whole body had given this weird little shiver, muscles tightening then softening, like the syllables themselves were a stretch he hadn’t realized he needed. Mindy had clocked it—the micro-relaxation, the way his shoulders dropped half an inch—and tucked it away. Lilly had seized the opening. “And the extra protection has helped,” she’d added, her voice steadier than she felt. “Whether he wants to admit it or not.” Paul’s head had snapped toward her, eyebrows up. “Really?” The word had been half-challenge, half child genuinely waiting to be told he’d done something right. Lilly’s expression had softened in a way that surprised him. “Really,” she’d said. “Ever since you started using the trainers overnight, you’ve been sleeping deeper. You’re waking up more excited than… terrified to take on the day.” Her lips had twitched. “If you didn’t have that extra protection, would you have thrown yourself at Mockingbird the way you did?” He’d wanted to argue. To insist he would’ve done it anyway. But the image of the audition waiting room had flickered in his mind—the way he’d leaned into the security of that hidden padding as he went over his lines. Heat had rushed to his face. “I… don’t know,” he’d admitted. Mindy had followed the thread. “So at Kim’s,” she’d said, “did you keep having really good sleep?” Paul’s mouth had gotten ahead his little side was seeping back into the drivers seat. “Actually some of the bestest ever,” he’d said, and felt the minute the word traitored him. Silence. Three adults, one inadvertent kindergarten adjective hanging between them like a banner. Mindy had mirrored him deliberately. “Bestest ever, huh?” She’d smiled, not mocking, just inviting. “What made sleep at Kim’s the bestest ever?” A shy, uncontrollable smile had stolen across his face, small but real. “The sleep sack,” he’d said. “Okay,” Mindy had prompted. “What did it feel like in the sleep sack?” He’d stared at his hands. “Like a hug,” he’d said, voice going softer. “Like… I got to feel hugged all night. No stress. No nightmares. Just… warm and safe. Like… mommy—” The last word had slipped out half-whisper, more breath than sound, and his whole face had flamed. Mindy’s chest had ached, the old, familiar tug of a mother-heart seeing a need that had been gnawing unseen for too long. She’d kept her tone clinical, but gentle. “That sounds… pretty wonderful,” she’d said. “Anything you didn’t like?” He’d huffed a small, embarrassed laugh. “Sometimes it hugs you a little too tight,” he’d mumbled. “You kinda need a grown-up to let you out and… if you gotta pott—” The word had broken in half as his adult mind slammed the door shut. His eyes had widened. “Can I—uh—use the restroom?” he’d blurted, already halfway to standing. “Of course,” Mindy had said smoothly. “Down the hall, second door on the left. We could all use a quick break.” He hadn’t waited for more. The door had clicked behind him, the echo of his sneakers fading down the corridor. Only then had Mindy reached across the small space and taken both Bryan’s and Lilly’s hands, her fingers cool but firm. “That,” she’d said quietly, eyes flicking between them, “was a really good first step. Both of you. I know it’s hard to hear. Maybe it even feels a little taboo. But there is no such thing as normal here. There’s normal for him. For what his system needs.” Lilly had swallowed. “So what do we… do?” Mindy had shifted into logistics. “We get practical,” she’d said. “Food first—always. I want you making veggie and fruit shakes at home. Purees. You can freeze them in ice cube trays, use them in sauces, soups, casseroles. Especially greens. His gut needs the support.” Images had started lining up in Lilly’s mind unbidden: her blender instead of her ring light; kale and spinach instead of contour palettes; ice cube trays filled with colors that matched the SMG brand palette almost embarrassingly well. Green for gut, purple for berries, orange for beta carotene. Fuel, not content. “And I’d like you to pack… a go bag,” Mindy had continued. She’d paused, corrected herself. “I was going to say diaper bag, but—sorry. Poor word choice.” Bryan had stiffened. Lilly had blinked. “A to-go bag, every time” Mindy had amended. “Change of bottoms. Extra water. Wipes. Step Ins.” She’d met Lilly’s eyes. “And the diapers Kim purchased and used with him.” Lilly’s mouth had fallen open. “Diapers?” she’d echoed before she could catch herself. “Isn’t that… a bit much?” Mindy had held her gaze, not with pity, but with grounded empathy. “I’m saying you should be prepared for everything,” she’d said. “His condition’s going to have good days and bad. Even at Kim’s, where he had some great days, it sounds like he was pampered more than he was protected. If we see step backs—if trainers aren’t enough—briefs have to be on the table. For his mental and physical well-being.” In Lilly’s mind, her purse morphed right there on the couch—Birkin lines and buttery leather giving way to something more utilitarian, pockets repurposed for wipes and folded plastic and soft cotton. It should have embarrassed her. Instead, to her own surprise, a strange sense of purpose had threaded through the unease. The highway curved. Sunlight flickered through gaps in the barrier, strobing across Paul’s face. The back seat suddenly felt too big and too small all at once. Lilly glanced sideways at him. He sat forward a little, seatbelt snug across his chest, hands clasped so tight his knuckles matched Bryan’s. In the reflection of the glass, he looked both older and younger than he was. The boy who’d just discussed sleep sacks like a prescription and the almost-man who’d nailed Atticus’s cadence in a high school auditorium. Without thinking too hard about it, she let her hand slide across the space between them until her fingers brushed his. He flinched, just a tiny recoil, like a spooked animal who wasn’t used to being approached head-on. Then he stilled. He didn’t lace their fingers. But he didn’t pull away, either. She kept her palm there, warm, not gripping, just… present. In the front seat, Bryan caught the moment in the rearview. For a heartbeat, the blur of traffic around them faded. “The ocean comes in and out,” he said quietly, more to the windshield than to anyone in particular. “Tides grow, regress, wipe stuff away, bring stuff back. Doesn’t change that it’s still the ocean.” Bryan’s mind drifted back to earlier that afternoon before ALL of this, before when memories were revisited and not reviewed for future use. That afternoon before the appoint Martina joined them as they moved together without needing to speak. Bryan gripped one arm, Lilly the other. Martina lifted from the back, steering them around stacked boxes and old sports equipment. The chair was heavier than it looked, the weight settling into Bryan’s shoulders like history. There was an unspoken reverence in the way they carried it, like they were transporting an altar, not furniture. “Not in his room,” Lilly said, as they edged toward the house door. “Too… much.” “Hallway nook?” Martina suggested. “Upstairs. Where he passes it, but it doesn’t… loom.” Bryan nodded. “Yeah. Somewhere between.” They maneuvered it up the stairs, careful not to bang the banister. Each step seemed to echo—Rachel’s laughter, toddler-Paul’s giggles, the faint rasp of the old house. As they rested it in the little alcove at the top of the landing—a recessed space with just enough room for the chair and a small table—Martina ran her palm along the armrest, They spent the next hour polishing it, their movements quiet and synchronized. Martina fetched a bottle of wood oil and three soft cloths. Bryan worked the oil into the seat and arms, the cedar drinking it in, the wood deepening to a richer hue. Lilly focused on the back slats, wiping each curve with care, like she could erase years of dust and guilt in one motion. Every now and then, as Bryan’s rag passed over a particular groove in the grain, images flickered behind his eyes. Rachel, hair still thick, laughing as toddler Paul tried to “help” sand, his small hands smudged with dust. A year later, her in that same chair, scarf on, skin pale, rocking their son through a nightmare. Another time, her voice hoarse, singing off-key while Martina perched on the ottoman, bottle-feeding baby Amber, the two women exchanging exhausted, private smiles. And then a memory he hadn’t let himself touch in years: a four-year-old Paul, tiny in dinosaur pajamas, insisting his turn to rock Mama. Rachel had let him climb up, had let him brace his little hands on the armrests and rock with all his might, the motion barely more than a tremor. She’d laughed until she cried, then pulled him into her lap with what strength she had left. “Thank you, mi doctorcito,” she’d whispered into his hair. “You fix my heart.” He’d joined them then, Bryan remembered, kneeling behind the chair, pushing gently to help, wrapping his arms around them both. A whole family contained in the steady arc of wood. Later, after she was gone, when Paul’s nightmares got worse, he’d tried to sit in the chair with his son and found he couldn’t do it. The grief was too loud. His muscles had locked, refusing to sway, his arms too stiff. Martina had taken over then, cradling a restless Paul against her chest while Bryan stood in the hallway, hands useless at his sides. Now, rubbing oil into the same arms, he swallowed around the lump in his throat.   At the house, the air inside was cool and faintly scented as Martina had left a pot of black bean stew on low and a tray of grilled cheese—thick slices layered with green chiles and shaved steak—wrapped in foil. Comfort food. No one was hungry. They filled bowls anyway, sat around the table more out of habit than appetite. Paul pushed a crust around his plate, the muscles in his forearm flexing. The clock over the stove ticked louder than usual. “So…” he said finally, picking at the edge of his napkin. “You’re just… okay with this. Me… like this.” He didn’t look at either of them as he said it. His tone wasn’t accusing so much as bewildered, like he was trying to find the shape of their reaction and failing. Bryan set his spoon down. “No,” he said, honest and steady. “We’re not okay with it like it’s some fun new hobby. I hate that you’re scared. I hate that your body’s doing this to you.” He paused, waiting until Paul risked a glance up. “But we’re here with it. With you. That’s different.” The distinction landed somewhere behind Paul’s ribs, not comfort exactly, but not abandonment either. Lilly nodded, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. “We’re not going anywhere,” she added. “Even if your bladder’s being an asshole.” A strangled laugh escaped him before he could smother it. “Language,” he murmured automatically, echoing something she’d said to him a hundred times. The familiarity of it eased the knot in his stomach a little. After dishes were rinsed and left to drip-dry, the collective decision for an early night unfolded without being spoken. Everyone looked wrung out. Tomorrow would come whether they were ready or not. Paul climbed the stairs alone, hand gliding along the banister. At the top, he stopped. The chair sat in the nook, fully revealed now. The wood gleamed softly, the oil bringing out tones of honey and amber. A folded knit throw lay across the back, one of Martina’s—cream with a subtle striped pattern. The seat looked wide enough for him, maybe even for him and someone else. No one had said a word about it when he came in. No announcement. No explanation. It was just… there. He stepped closer, heart beating faster for reasons he didn’t have language for. His fingers hovered over the armrest, then settled, the wood smooth and warm under his palm. For a split second, he could smell something that wasn’t there—fabric softener from another laundry room, Rachel’s perfume from a lifetime ago, the faint chalky scent of children’s Tylenol. A phantom memory of weightlessness, of being rocked until his thoughts blurred and his body trusted the rhythm enough to let go. He swallowed hard. “Not a place you’re stuck,” Bryan’s voice echoed in his head from the car. “A place we visit when you need it. And we leave together.” He could almost see it: himself curled in that chair, hoodie and sweats and all, a blanket tucked around him. Bryan’s hands on the back, pushing gently. Maybe Lilly’s hand holding a mug of tea within reach. Maybe—his cheeks flamed at the thought—Savannah’s voice, teasing and kind, telling him about med school as if it were the most normal thing in the world to talk to a college guy in a sleep sack. His throat tightened. He let go of the armrest before he could betray himself by sitting down. “Not tonight,” he muttered, mostly to prove he still could say it. He stepped around the chair and headed to his room, the floorboards creaking softly under his feet. Chapter Sixty-Three: Sleep didn’t so much leave Paul as refuse to arrive. He lay on his back, staring at the shadowed ceiling, phone face-down on the nightstand, a thin blanket of noise over a mind that wouldn’t turn off. Every time he blinked, Mindy’s office flashed behind his eyelids—her calm eyes, the EMG graphs, the word chronic landing like a stamp he couldn’t scrape off. His hands buzzed faintly, that pins-and-needles neuropathy that came when he was overtired and overstimulated. He flexed his fingers against the sheet, willing them to calm. He’d looked for the pacifier the one the nightstand, no it was gone. Dad must have kept it. You’re almost eighteen, his brain hissed. You shouldn’t need— The thought cut off, unfinished, swallowed by the restless churn of his body. At some point, the edges of the dark room softened. The ceiling blurred. The hum of the AC turned into the hush of morning. Sunlight slipped across his eyelids. He blinked, squinting, the room washed in warm gold. For a second everything felt… light. Birdsong outside. A strip of Florida sky as blue as a pool through the gap in his curtains. The door swung open. “Rise and shine, honey bunny!” Lilly’s voice bounced into the room before she did, too bright for the hour. She strode in like a Pinterest version of herself—hair loose around her shoulders, soft lounge set, bare feet, energy turned up to two hundred. “Mmmf,” he groaned automatically, burrowing deeper. There was pressure around his shoulders. Around his legs. A contained snugness he knew now in his bones. He looked down. His heart did a slow, complicated flip. The sleep sack hugged him from chest to toes, the zipper was drawn all the way up, the fabric gently cocooning him. He should have tensed, panicked. He didn’t. Warmth spread instead, a full-body exhale he hadn’t authorized. A hug, his mind supplied, the same word he’d used with Mindy. Lilly’s smile widened as she reached the side of the bed. Her bracelets jingled softly. “There’s my snugglebug,” she cooed, leaning over him. That’s when he heard it. A crinkle, loud in the quiet of the room, as she pressed her hand against the front of the sack. Not just fabric. The unmistakable give of swollen padding underneath. She exaggerated the check, fingers pressing the front, then patting the middle. Her eyes lit with mock surprise. “Ohhhh,” she sang. “We are way past a tinkle, mister.” Dread pooled in his stomach. He hadn’t just wet; he could feel the heavy sag now that she’d called attention to it, the way the padding clung. Before he could form a protest, Lilly tipped her head toward the hallway, voice going even more sing-song. “Oh Daaaddy,” she called. “I think you’ve got a lil’ stinker to change!” Paul’s face went hot. “Lilly—” She turned back to him, eyes shining with that over-the-top, baby-commercial brightness. “Oh yes he does, yes he does,” she teased, giving his belly a little tickle through the sack. “Huh? Did you make Daddy a big morning poopy in your pampers?” His protest strangled itself halfway out as her fingers found a ticklish spot at his ribs. Against his will, a bubble of laughter hiccuped free, higher than his usual chuckle, embarrassingly close to a giggle. Bryan appeared in the doorway, hair mussed, T-shirt soft with age, grin crooked. “Somebody’s certainly Daddy’s little slugger and Daddy’s little stinker this morning,” he drawled. “You trying to set a new record, kiddo?” A long, soft rasp, the sleep sack opening inch by inch, warm air leaving me, cool air sliding in and brushing over my thighs like a quiet accusation.  Lilly’s hands were warm when they slipped under the fabric, steady in that motherly, maddening way—no hesitation, no disgust. Bryan’s voice came next, low and amused, “Okay buddy, lift those hips for your old man—up we go.” His  body obeyed, legs raising automatically as Dad’s hands guided me. The swollen padding underneath squished, warm, humiliating. The tapes peeled away with loud, unforgiving rrrips, each one making my pulse pound harder. “Ohhh boy,” Bryan said in a tone I’d heard him use with babies in shopping carts and puppies on the beach. “We got us a stinky situation in here.” Lilly laughed—the kind of laugh that hit like sunlight and shame in equal measure. “What did I tell you? I knew our lil’ honey bunny was gonna make those super-pampers work overtime.” They weren’t mocking. They were playing. Which was somehow worse. My face burned. My toes curled. And yet—I didn’t tell them to stop. A cool wipe touched sensitive skin and I gasped—quiet, involuntary, a small sound that slid out before pride could catch it. “Awwww,” Lilly cooed, instantly leaning into the moment like she’d been waiting for it. “Too cold for the widdle tum-tum? Daddy, warm the next one up in your hands a sec.” “I got him,” Bryan said, rubbing a wipe between his palms until it was warm. “See, kiddo? Daddy’s got the magic touch.” His voice was ridiculous. Deep, playful, exaggerated—but gentle, too. Safe. So safe it made my ribs hurt. Lilly leaned over me, her hair falling like a curtain, her perfume soft and citrusy, the smell of morning and safety and home. Her hand brushed my hip, guiding me when Bryan needed access, and she used the tone that always cut straight through me: “Such a good boy,” she murmured. “Look at you holding still so perfect. Mommy’s so proud—yes I am, yes I am.” My breath stuttered. The words felt like warm syrup settling over my nerves. My body relaxed into the mattress at the sound of Mommy. Hated it. Needed it. Bryan fanned the air with a dramatic “Whew!” that was more theatrical than necessary. “Good thing Daddy put the super-absorbent nighttime blasters on ya,” he said, shaking his head like this was all very funny and very expected. “You sure did your level best to defeat ‘em, slugger.” I squeezed my eyes shut. Lilly giggled—light, musical, maddening. “I told you he was gonna put them to the test! Didn’t I say it? Didn’t I say that the baby boy was gonna wake up with a biiiiig surprise in his diapee’s?” Lilly’s hand cupped my cheek for a moment—not teasing, not mocking, but grounding. “And you did, sugar,” she whispered softly, the baby-talk fading for a heartbeat. “You’re safe. We’re right here.” That—that made me want to cry more than the joking ever could. But then she slipped right back into the play as if sensing I needed the cushion of silliness: “Ohh, Daddy,” she called over her shoulder in a singsong voice. “You better hurry with that clean diapee! Our little stinker’s gonna wiggle right off this bed if you don’t!” “I see that wiggle,” Bryan teased, patting my thigh lightly as he slid the fresh padding under me. “Hey! No wiggling on the changing table, mister. That’s against the rules.” “I’m not—” I started, mortified. Both of them gasped dramatically at my attempt to defend myself. “He talks!” Lilly said, eyes wide as she looked down at me. “I thought he only made cute lil’ babbles!” “Yeah, yeah,” Bryan chuckled. “Let Daddy finish or we’re gonna need a hazmat team in here.” The powder puffed up in a faint cloud, clean and sweet. Bryan taped the diaper securely, smoothing it with practiced hands, and I felt the thickness, the snugness, wrap around me. My heart thumped hard against my ribs. My body relaxed, half sinking into the bed. Lilly smoothed the front gently—gently enough to make me feel seen, not exposed. “There,” she whispered. “Clean as a whistle. My handsome boy.” And underneath it all, beneath the powder and the crinkle and the awful, adorable commentary, another scent started to creep in. Breakfast. Fresh bread baking. Coffee dark and rich. Eggs, bacon, something sweet—jam or syrup—melting into the air. His stomach growled loudly enough for all three of them to hear. “Well,” Bryan said, fastening the last tape with a satisfied pat to the now-clean, heavily padded front. “Smells like somebody’s earned himself a serious breakfast.” Before Paul could sit up, Bryan slid an arm under his shoulders and another under his knees and hoisted him up, slinging him over his shoulder like he used to when Paul was little and had fallen asleep on the couch mid-movie. “Hey!” Paul yelped, the protest half-hearted. “Relax,” Bryan chuckled, giving his padded backside two affectionate pats. “Just transporting one very well-diapered sack of potatoes.” They left the bedroom, the hallway light bright, the whole house bathed in morning. In the kitchen, Martina stood at the stove, hair pulled back in a scarf, spatula in hand. Pans sizzled; the smell of bacon and butter and toasting bread wrapped the room like a hug. Bryan set Paul down—not on a chair, but on something that gave under him in a thick, padded way. There was a click at his hip, then another at the other side. A strap settled snugly across his lap. He glanced down. The tray in front of him was wide, plastic, and at his height instead of table level. Under his thighs he could feel the dense cushion. There was a rustle behind his neck, the rough rip of Velcro. Something soft draped over his chest and fastened. His vision blurred with the movement. When it cleared, he caught the edge of a familiar print: Safari animals dancing across a bib that covered half his torso. Martina turned from the stove, eyes crinkling. She reached out and pinched his cheek with infinite fondness. “Ahí está,” she crooned. “Mi bebé limpio, contento y seguramente con hambre.” There he is. Cute, clean, happy, and probably hungry. Bryan snorted into his coffee as he took a seat. “Cute now, sure,” he said, raising his mug. “Clean… well, you should’ve seen the crater he left in that diaper.” “Bryan,” Lilly chided, but she was laughing as she crossed from the fridge, a bottle in hand. The liquid inside glowed a bright, almost cartoonish orange. She sat beside the high chair, twisted the cap off, and without ceremony guided the nipple to his lips. His body answered before his pride could. His mouth closed around it; the first pull of cool, sweet carrot-and-kale juice slid over his tongue. “There’s my good hungry boy,” she murmured. “You drink all that yummy juice. Just for you, baby.” He drank. He couldn’t not. The tray in front of him soon held cut-up toast smeared with jam, stubby strips of bacon, soft scrambled eggs. No utensils, just bite-sized pieces easy for fingers. His hands—apparently independent contractors—picked up food and ferried it to his mouth while his parents ate their own plates, same food, real plates and silverware. The back door clicked open. Amber bounded in, sun-warmed and bright in leggings and an oversized T-shirt. She leaned over to kiss Martina’s cheek as she rinsed the last pan. “Morning, Mama,” Amber said, then turned toward the high chair. Her face lit like someone had flicked on a switch. “There he is,” she crowed, holding up a math test with a big red A at the top. “My padded pal. Couldn’t have done it without you, genius.” She leaned over the tray and pressed a quick, noisy kiss to his cheek, unbothered by the bib or the tray or the padding. “Even if my first period is math and his is tummy time with Bluey, I’m still jealous,” she added, grinning. Lilly slid a plate of eggs onto the table. “That’s amazing, Amber,” she said. “But Pauly should be the one thanking you for sitting for him as often as you do.” Amber’s cheeks flushed. “Who could say no to those chubby cheeks and dropping diapers?” she joked, wiggling his bib for emphasis. The kitchen rippled with laughter and clatter and the soft, steady rhythm of being loved in the loudest, most embarrassing way possible. He jolted awake. Darkness. The shadowed outline of his own room. The hum of the AC back in his ears. Sheets twisted around his legs. He was sweating—chest damp, hairline sticky—and the heat wasn’t just on his skin. It clung to him, heavy, especially between his thighs and under his lower back. One shift told him everything: he was soaked. The trainer hadn’t just failed; it had surrendered. His phone lay facedown on the nightstand. He fumbled for it, screen flaring too bright. 1:04 a.m. For a second he lay there, chest heaving, dream-images overlapping with reality: bib, sleep sack, Amber’s kiss, Lilly’s singsong voice. Shame tried to surge up, hot and overwhelming. But underneath it, quieter and harder to ignore, was something else. That had been a nightmare. A ridiculous, technicolor, over-the-top scenario his anxiety had drawn up to torture him. And he’d… liked parts of it. Was that just a taste of things to come? He set the phone back down, hands shaking slightly. He grimaced, swung his feet over the side of the bed, plastic pants whispering faintly with the movement. Water, he thought. Just… I need some water. He opened his door and stepped into the hallway. Moonlight poured in pale and soft through the tall windows that rose from the first floor up to the second, painting silver ladders of light across the wall. There, in the middle of it, haloed by a little plug-in nightlight Martina had stuck in the outlet earlier, sat Rachel’s rocking chair. The cedar gleamed gently, the newly polished wood catching the moon. The knit throw lay folded over the back like a waiting embrace. He stood there barefoot, in just a damp trainer heavy under his plastic pants, and stared at it. No one was in the hallway. No voices urged him. No hands guided. His heart hammered. This is stupid, his pride muttered. His body swayed a step closer anyway. One more step. Then another. He reached out, fingers hovering over the armrest before making contact. The wood was warm from the house’s air, smooth under his palm, the grain familiar in a way that made his throat ache. He could turn around. Go back to bed. Change himself, toss the ruined trainer, pretend this whole day hadn’t happened. Instead, almost before he realized he’d decided, he turned and lowered himself into the chair. It was awkward at first. He was taller than the last time he’d been here—knees up a little higher, toes brushing the floor. The seat cradled him anyway, the high back catching his shoulders, the arms a boundary on either side. When he shifted his weight, the wood let out a soft, creaking sigh. The rhythm found him. Forward, back. Forward, back. His muscles remembered long before his brain did. Somewhere deep in his spine, a knot loosened. “Paul?” Lilly’s voice was soft behind him, more question than call. He hadn’t heard her ascend the stairs from the Master bedroom below. He glanced back over his shoulder. She stood at the end of the hallway in an old college T-shirt and flannel shorts, hair pulled into a messy knot, bare feet silent on the hardwood. Her face was naked—no makeup, just tired eyes and worry. For a heartbeat, she looked like she might retreat, give him privacy. Kim’s voice flickered through her mind instead. Go be that mama bear he needs. Lilly stepped forward. “You look a little cold, honey,” she said gently, nodding at his state, the way his shoulders hunched. “Don’t worry about the trainer. You can change when you’re settled.” She gently leaned Paul a tad forward grabbing the blanket from behind him as she moved behind the chair, draping it over him the way a barber settles a cape—but slower, more careful. The fabric fell over his chest and legs; she reached around and tucked the edges in lightly at his sides, trying to recreate the feeling he’d described earlier. Like a hug. Her hands trembled as they brushed his forearms. He pretended not to notice. She placed her palms on the back of the chair, took a breath, and began to rock. The motion was small at first—barely more than a sway—but steady. Forward, back. Forward, back. The creak of the wood synced with the beat of his heart, with the hush of the AC, with something older and slower inside him that had been trying to outrun itself all day. Seconds stretched. His breathing, jagged at first, started to smooth out. The tight band around his chest loosened another notch. A second shadow shifted at the top of the stairs. Bryan appeared, fingers wrapped around the banister, T-shirt and flannel pants, hair rumpled. He stopped when he saw them: Lilly behind the chair, rocking; Paul curled in it, blanket up to his chin, eyes half-lidded, dampness still caught in his lashes. For a moment, the past and present overlapped so sharply it hurt. Rachel’s silhouette overlaid Lilly’s. Toddler-Paul blurred into the almost-man in the chair. His throat closed. He walked up the last few steps slowly, barefoot, the boards creaking. At the side of the chair, he bent and kissed the top of Paul’s head, his lips lingering in his son’s hair. “You’re okay,” he murmured, words for both of them. He leaned across the back and brushed a kiss against Lilly’s mouth. It wasn’t heated, just a warm, grateful meeting of lips, the kind couples give each other in doorways and kitchens and hospital waiting rooms when there’s nothing else to offer but presence. “Call me if you need me,” he said quietly. And then, instead of hovering, instead of correcting or controlling, he stepped away and headed back down the stairs. Space, given on purpose. Paul watched him go, something in his chest tugging. The absence felt like trust. His breathing hitched once, a little aftershock of panic. The dream still clung in places—Amber’s joking, the high chair tray, Lilly’s exaggerated morning poopy voice. He felt his face heat in the dark, shame and longing knotted together. His eyes drifted to the small table someone had set beside the chair. Wood, a coaster, the soft glow of the nightlight. And there, where a mug might go, sat the pacifier. The same one from his nightstand. Someone—Dad, he realized, with a complicated swell of feeling—had moved it here earlier. Not forcing it on him. Just… making it available. His hand twitched under the blanket. He could ignore it. He could white-knuckle his way through the shaking breath, through the itchy feeling under his skin, through the electric buzz in his fingertips. Or he could pick up the one thing that had consistently quieted the noise without knocking him out. His fingers slipped free of the blanket almost on their own. He reached sideways, closed his hand around the cool plastic, the familiar shape. For a second he just held it in his palm, thumb tracing the edge, heart thudding. Then, slowly, he lifted it to his mouth. He didn’t look at Lilly. He didn’t say a word. He just pressed it between his lips and let his jaw close around it, the silicone giving in the right places, his tongue finding the rhythm it had picked up over a weekend he’d pretended he hated. Lilly didn’t coo. Didn’t comment. She just bent and brushed a kiss into his hair, right where Bryan’s had been. “That’s it,” she whispered, the words barely more than breath. “Just breathe, baby. I’ve got you.” She kept rocking. Forward, back. Forward, back. The hallway stretched long and soft around them, lit by the low nightlight and the moon climbing past the windows. Their shadows layered on the wall—Lilly’s slim form, the curve of the chair, Paul’s blanket-wrapped outline, pacifier bobbing once, twice as he sucked. In that small pool of light, he was all his ages at once. The scared little boy whose mother had died too soon. The furious teenager who’d tried to outrun his body with alcohol and bravado. The almost-man whose nervous system misfired like a shorted wire, who needed tools most people would never understand just to make it through the night. And he was also just… Paul. In his mother’s chair. In his stepmother’s hands. Using a pacifier by choice, because it helped him survive a body that didn’t obey the rules. It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t pathetic. It was strange and holy and deeply, painfully human. The chair creaked. The blanket rustled. Lilly’s hands stayed steady on the back, rocking her boy through the worst of the night, trusting that when the tide went out again, he’d still be there. They didn’t speak. They just rocked, wrapped in long shadows and low light, holding on until the rhythm itself began to feel like a promise: you are not alone in this.      

Yes, I am responding to an old thread, but i wanted to add my two cents. I think you might have misunderstood the reason for draining the bottle in the middle of a field.  Think about what happens if the milk bottle slips out of the pilots hand and if said milk bottle happens to land on someones head.  I have more take offs than landings in a plane.  The idea of dropping something (like a camera) or a double failure of my equipment and landing on someone is something that I would rather never happen.  

Kayla wasn’t liking her new role as it seemed her step mom was really picking up the mommy role.  The looks the spanking Kayla was fit to be tied!  “Ok fine quit talking to me like i’m a little girl!” She said hating how small she was feeling..  Kayla reluctantly did as she was told  When she saw her dad’s unhappy face she knew her world was about to change!  She knew this was serious!!   

That pricing is out of control! When I log into their site it shows me a far lower price. I've never heard of procomfort but they don't look super trustworthy especially because their site features a picture of a bag that says "pullups", has a picture of tab diapers and looks covered in AI noise. 

Don't you start acting like @BabySofia, leaving us with these massive cliffhangers. Hmmph!