Trading Post

Is it not possible to order from Germany, all EU so no customs duty. Make sure you have a bigger order to spread the shipping cost. Probably still not "cheap" but I pay 28 Eur for a 12 Pack Incontrol BeDry Night and they are on the expensive side, cheaper are available too. 

Well, the second time this week I have woken to a soaked bed kind of cements it. 

Marseillaise 

Sally wakes slowly to the soft hum of a yacht anchored off Miami, sunlight slipping through the porthole and the quiet realization that the Atlantic is behind her and home is just ahead. Minutes later, the boat docks not at a marina but at the end of her own backyard, where familiar faces, quiet surprises, and a slightly surreal welcome blur the line between ordinary life and something far bigger. With Saturday finally free of schedules, she disappears into the one place she’s been longing to return to—her studio—losing herself in paint, reflection, and a canvas that turns rain and routine into color and meaning. But the day doesn’t end with art. Between a small victory behind the wheel and an unexpected act of generosity that quietly changes someone else’s day, Sally discovers that sometimes the most powerful moments at home are the simplest ones.   Chapter 160 - Collecting stars “Morning, darling.” Sally surfaced slowly, as if rising through layers of warm water. Her first awareness was light — pale, silver-blue, filtering through the round porthole. Then the low hum beneath her. Then her mother’s voice, far too cheerful for this hour. She rolled over, dragging the sheet with her. It had half fallen off during the night, twisted around her legs. Her hair was stuck to her cheek. “Morning?” she croaked. “Yes, morning,” Bridget replied, entirely composed, already dressed, already vertical. “The sun is coming up. I thought you’d want to see it. Breakfast will be served on the top deck.” Sally squinted toward the window, trying to make sense of direction, time, existence. “Do we live here now?” she muttered. Bridget laughed softly. “We are anchored just off Miami. Customs mid-morning. Then home.” Sally blinked. Anchored. Home. The world rearranged itself in her sleepy brain. Then her mother’s tone shifted — gentle, almost casual. “Dry night?” It wasn’t interrogation. It was confirmation. A shared secret between them. Sally pushed herself upright, rubbing her eyes. She looked down. There it was. Dry. She grinned, slow and triumphant. “Full star,” she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. Bridget’s expression softened in a way that had nothing to do with yachts or sunrise. “Good,” she said simply. Sally flopped back against the pillow for half a second longer, hugging the victory like a blanket. “Okay,” Bridget added, stepping closer to the bed. “Bathroom. Get comfortable, but presentable. You are not meeting customs in a sleep shirt.” Sally groaned dramatically. “I’m at sea. I deserve exemptions.” “You are almost home,” Bridget corrected. “And you like looking put together.” “That is slander.” “Is it?” Sally squinted at her mother, then laughed. “Fine,” she sighed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She shuffled toward the bathroom, the yacht gently rocking beneath her. The subtle motion was still there — softer now that they were anchored, but present. She peeled off the diaper with efficient hands, a small private nod to herself before dropping it into the discreet bin. Progress. Not perfect. But progress. She used the toilet properly again, because that was the point. Washed her hands. Studied her reflection in the mirror. Hair wild. Eyes bright. Cheeks slightly flushed from sleep. Not a headline. Not a symbol. Just a girl who had crossed an ocean overnight. She pulled on loose linen shorts and a soft sweater, brushed her hair into something presentable, and stepped back into the cabin. Bridget waited just outside the door, pretending not to hover. “All set?” she asked. Sally nodded. “All set. Two stars in a row,” she added, unable to hide her pride. “Look at you,” Bridget murmured. “Collecting stars”. They climbed the stairs together toward the top deck. The air was cooler up there, the sky pale pink at the horizon. Miami stretched in the distance — faint outlines of buildings, a promise rather than a presence. Adrian stood at the rail, coffee in hand. “There she is,” he said as Sally stepped beside him. “Our seasoned sailor.” “Barely,” she said, leaning against the railing. “I slept through the entire Atlantic.” “That’s the point,” he replied. She looked out at the water, calm and reflective in the early light. “Are we really almost home?” she asked. “Yes,” Bridget said quietly. Sally inhaled deeply, salt air filling her lungs. Teen mode kicked in fully now. “Okay,” she declared. “I expect pancakes.” Adrian laughed. “Gina does not do pancakes casually.” “Then she’ll rise to the occasion.” Bridget shook her head, smiling. The sun edged higher, casting gold across the anchored yachts around them. Sally rested her elbows on the rail, hair catching the light. Two stars. One ocean crossed. Miami ahead. Not bad for a school week, she thought. “Okay,” she murmured to the morning. “Let’s go home.” -- Docking a yacht in front of your own backyard should not feel normal. Sally stood barefoot at the rail as the Majesty yacht eased toward the private dock on Solano Prado, Miami waking gently around them. Palm trees stirred. The water was calmer here, narrower, familiar. Her house came into view — white façade, clean lines, the quiet confidence of Old Cutler Bay. She shook her head slowly. “We just… park boats here now?” she muttered. Adrian stood beside her, hands in his pockets. “Temporarily.” “Sure,” she said. “Temporarily.” Deckhands moved with quiet efficiency. Lines were thrown, secured, tightened. Engines lowered to idle, then silence. The yacht gave one last subtle shift as it settled. Home. Elena stood near the gangway. “Welcome to Coral Gables,” she said warmly. “Thank you for the crossing,” Bridget replied. Sally stepped forward. And froze. “Mia?” She blinked hard, as if the Florida sun had distorted her vision. Mia stood on the dock, smiling broadly, hands clasped together in front of her. “Sally!” she laughed. Sally stepped off the yacht and straight into her hug. “What are you doing here?” Sally demanded, pulling back to look at her. “Surprise,” Mia said, eyes twinkling. Sally turned. Roberto was already at the stern, helping a deckhand unload luggage, moving with calm efficiency like he had never left. Her eyebrows shot up toward her parents. Bridget’s smile widened. Adrian gave a small, satisfied nod. “I know,” he said. “Surprise. It took a little paperwork, but they’ll be with us here as well.” “As in… here-here?” Sally asked. “As in Miami when we’re here. Zurich when we’re there,” Adrian explained. “Shadowing us. Keeps things simple.” Sally looked between Mia and Roberto, then back at her father. “You smuggled our housekeepers across continents.” “Professionally transferred,” he corrected mildly. Sally laughed and hugged Mia again, tighter this time. “I missed you,” she said honestly. Then she looked at Roberto and grinned. “My dad’s been missing his driver.” “Have not,” Adrian protested. “My BMW M5 testifies otherwise.” “Cars don’t argue back,” Sally replied sweetly. Roberto chuckled, shaking his head. “Good to see you, Miss Sally.” “Will you be living here?” she asked Mia, glancing toward the house. “Because Zurich has your apartment, and this place doesn’t.” Mia shook her head gently. “We have an apartment nearby. Very close. We’ll be here every day.” Sally nodded, absorbing it. They walked up the dock together, the yacht now part of the scenery behind them. The front lawn looked impossibly green. The house doors stood open, letting in light. “So how long have you been here?” Sally asked as they stepped onto the stone path. “Two days,” Mia said. “Enough to prepare.” “Prepare?” Sally echoed. Roberto lifted a suitcase with one hand. “Your room is ready,” he said simply. Sally paused just before the front door, taking it all in. Yacht behind her. Home ahead. Zurich folded into Miami. Normal rearranged again. She looked at her parents. “This is not normal,” she said. Bridget slipped an arm through hers. “No,” she agreed softly. “It isn’t.” Sally smiled, half incredulous, half thrilled. “Okay,” she said, pushing the door open. “Home sweet slightly surreal home.” -- Saturday belonged to her. No homeschool. No schedules. No sunrise briefings from captains or foundation calls drifting through the hallway. It was nearly ten when Sally finally emerged from her room, hair still slightly damp from a lazy shower, eyes clear and unhurried. She opened her closet and didn’t even hesitate. Old lounge pants. Soft, loose, paint-stained at the hem. A faded T-shirt that had survived three summers and at least one emotional crisis. The kind that fit just right and didn’t try to be flattering. She tugged it on and studied herself in the mirror. “Artist,” she declared quietly. She tied her hair into a high ponytail, secure enough not to fall loose when she leaned over a canvas. Then she reached for her water bottle. Paused. And opened the drawer beneath. She stared at the neat stack for a second. Because she could. She pulled a couple diapers out and tucked them discreetly under her arm. Comfort mattered when she painted. Painting was not a timed activity. It was not compatible with interruption. When she painted, hours dissolved. She didn’t want to be pulled out of a thought because her body demanded attention. No time constraints. No physical boundaries. Just color. Just movement. Just whatever was inside her head spilling out onto canvas. She walked down the hallway, diapers tucked casually against her side like it was a folded towel. Nobody saw. Nobody needed to. As she stepped through the garage, she slowed automatically. Her Ford Fiesta sat in its slot, freshly washed, sunlight glinting off its windshield. She smiled. “Roberto,” she murmured. The tires were clean. The interior looked vacuumed. It wasn’t a Porsche. It wasn’t allocated. It wasn’t conditional. It was hers. She ran a hand lightly over the hood as she passed. “I’m driving you today,” she promised softly. She missed driving. The feel of the clutch. The small, mechanical honesty of it. Then, inevitably, the other thought crept in. Manual Porsche. She made a face. “Focus,” she told herself, glancing down at the diaper tucked under her arm. For a flicker of a second, guilt tried to surface. If I’m serious about training… She stopped halfway up the studio stairs. “No,” she said out loud, to the empty garage. This wasn’t about regression. This wasn’t about fear. This was about comfort. About intention. She had stars on her calendar. Real ones. Earned ones. She had dry mornings to prove it. And if she chose comfort on a Saturday while covered in acrylic paint, that didn’t erase progress. It acknowledged reality. The doctor said it was OK. She climbed the rest of the stairs to her studio. The room smelled faintly of turpentine and possibility. Canvases leaned against the walls. Sunlight streamed through the high window, catching flecks of dried paint on the floor. She closed the door behind her. Set her water bottle on the table. Laid the diaper on the chair. For a moment she just stood there, looking at the blank canvas waiting for her. Home was strange. Wealth was strange. Yachts docking in front of your yard were strange. Growing up in public was strange. But this — this small room above the garage, this decision to paint, this comfort she allowed herself — this felt steady. She slipped off her lounge pants and let them pool around her ankles. She kicked them off and slipped off her panties, folding them neatly and setting them on the bathroom cabinet.  She diapered herself quickly, efficiently, pulling her lounge pants back up over the soft padding. No ceremony. No shame. Comfort and security, she thought wryly. Then she stepped barefoot onto the paint-splattered floor, picked up a brush, and faced the canvas. “Okay,” she whispered. No headlines. No expectations. Just color. And the quiet hum of her own becoming. -- Sally stood in the middle of her studio, staring at the image on her tablet. Gray. That was her first impression. Tall buildings closing in on each other. A canyon of steel and glass. Rain falling in relentless vertical lines. People reduced to silhouettes. Routine in motion. Anonymous. Mechanical. And then— Color. Umbrellas. Dozens. Hundreds. Bursting open like defiance. She tilted her head. “Okay,” she murmured. “I see you.” She set the tablet down on a stool and stepped toward the blank canvas. Dipped her brush in water first. Then charcoal-gray acrylic. The first strokes were vertical. Heavy. Structural. She dragged the brush down with steady pressure, building the buildings — tall, oppressive, slightly suffocating. She let them lean inward just a little too much. Life can feel like that, she thought. Routine. Deadlines. Expectations. The narrowness of streets between responsibilities. She darkened the pavement with wide horizontal sweeps. Added reflections — smudged, blurred. People walking in patterns, heads down, moving forward because that’s what people do. She switched brushes. Smaller. More precise. She began sketching the crowd. Just silhouettes at first. No faces. No details. Just motion. So many difficulties in life. So much trouble. She paused, staring at the nearly monochrome canvas. “This is how it feels sometimes,” she whispered. Vanity. Noise. People rushing. Life repeating itself like a loop. Then she reached for color. Not gently. Boldly. A fierce red first — at the bottom center. She pressed the brush into the canvas, circular strokes radiating outward. The red umbrella bloomed like a heartbeat. She stepped back. “Yes.” Then yellow. Bright and unapologetic. Then cobalt blue. Emerald green. Violet. Each umbrella interrupted the gray. Not erased it. Interrupted it. She moved faster now, energized. Her strokes loosened. Life might look dull from far away. But from above — from God’s view, she thought — it isn’t gray. It’s scattered with grace. She added flecks of light into the rain. Tiny touches of white and pale gold, as if something invisible shimmered between the drops. Hope doesn’t remove the storm. It changes how you walk through it. She leaned close to the canvas, adding small hints of warmth beneath certain umbrellas. Slight glows around a few figures. Not obvious. Just enough. Faith. Not loud. Just present. She dipped into pink next. A soft one, near the top. Then orange near the edge. She deliberately varied sizes, spacing, direction — no perfect symmetry. God doesn’t copy-paste joy, she thought. He scatters it. Her brush slowed. She softened the gray around the umbrellas slightly, allowing reflections of their color to bleed into the pavement. Red shimmering faintly on wet stone. Blue dissolving into puddles. Even routine reflects beauty if you look closely. She stepped back again, chest rising. The image wasn’t about umbrellas anymore. It was about contrast. Without the gray, the color would be noise. Without the rain, the umbrellas wouldn’t matter. She wiped her hands on a rag and sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the canvas. Life. Work. Routine. They can feel senseless. Like walking in a narrow street between tall, cold buildings while it rains and everyone is just trying to get through. But the existence of life itself — the ability to imagine color, to create joy, to believe in something beyond the visible — that is God-given. Not earned. Given. She picked up a thin brush one last time and added a faint, almost invisible wash of gold high above the street — a hint of light breaking through the gray sky. You wouldn’t see it unless you looked carefully. But it was there. She smiled softly. “Okay,” she said to the canvas. “That’s better.” Outside, Coral Gables hummed in its own routines. Inside, on a paint-splattered floor above a garage, a girl in loose lounge pants, a diaper and a faded T-shirt had just turned rain into testimony. -- Something shifted. It wasn’t dramatic. No lightning bolt. No triumphant music. Just a quiet internal click. Sally stood back from the canvas, breathing lightly, paint drying in layers of gray and defiant color. The umbrellas were there now. The street existed. The sky hinted at gold. The structure was there. But it wasn’t finished. Not even close. She could already see the work ahead — the painstaking detailing of reflections, the careful shaping of figures, the layering of rain so it didn’t look like stripes but like atmosphere. The hours. The exhaustion. The moment when she would finally, reluctantly, sign her name in the corner. Months she had thought about this painting. It had lived in her head before it lived on canvas. Now it was real. And demanding. Her shoulders dropped slightly. “Okay,” she whispered to it. “You win.” A soft knock interrupted the silence. She didn’t answer. The door opened anyway. Bridget stepped in carrying a plate and a glass. “I come bearing diplomacy,” her mother announced lightly. Sally turned. “Sandwich?” she asked, hopeful. “Turkey. No philosophical symbolism attached,” Bridget said, setting the plate on a paint-free corner of the table. “And Sprite. Because artists forget to hydrate.” Sally smiled faintly and wiped her hands on a rag before reaching for the can. Bridget took in the canvas slowly. Her expression changed — not impressed, not overly dramatic. Just quiet recognition. “Oh,” she said softly. Sally shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s not done.” “It doesn’t need to be,” Bridget replied. “Not today.” Sally took a long sip of Sprite, bubbles sharp and grounding. Her mother’s eyes drifted downward. Then back up. She tilted her head slightly. “No stars for this painting session,” Bridget said gently. Sally blinked. Then stilled. She lifted the peeking flap of her gently sagging diaper. Wet. Not catastrophic. Not dramatic. Just… wet. The hours had dissolved again. The intensity. The immersion. The comfort. She hadn’t noticed. A flicker of disappointment crossed her face — brief but real. “I thought I—” she began. Bridget stepped closer and brushed a bit of dried blue paint from Sally’s forearm. “You painted,” she said simply. “You disappeared into something beautiful.” Sally let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The gray street. The riot of umbrellas. Rain and light coexisting. Progress doesn’t mean perfection, she thought. It means showing up again tomorrow. She slipped inside to clean up, not ashamed, just thoughtful. When she returned a few minutes later — dry diaper, T-shirt slightly adjusted — she picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Her mother leaned against the wall, watching her. “You know,” Bridget said lightly, “most teenagers skip lunch because they’re texting.” “I skip it because I’m philosophizing,” Sally corrected with mock gravity. Bridget laughed. They stood together in the paint-splattered studio, sunlight shifting across the unfinished canvas. Wet or dry. Star or no star. The painting was still becoming. So was she. -- Sally padded down the hallway barefoot, leaving faint paint-smudged fingerprints on the doorframe she barely brushed. She felt loose. Not polished. Not curated. Just… normal. Her ponytail had surrendered somewhere between the last brushstroke and the sandwich. Strands of hair escaped in all directions. There was a faint streak of ultramarine near her wrist and a suspicious gray smudge near her jaw. She smelled like acrylic and Florida humidity. Mia and Bridget sat at the kitchen island with coffee mugs, a grocery list half-written between them. “…and we’ll need more paper towels,” Mia was saying. “And lemons. You always run out of lemons.” Sally slipped past them, casual as a cat, holding a small, tied garbage bag behind her back. She moved toward the main trash bin and dropped it in with quiet efficiency. Bridget’s eyes followed the motion without comment. Mia noticed everything. “You look tired and happy, Miss Sally,” she said warmly. Sally grinned, pushing her messy hair back. “Yeah. Got some overdue painting done. Finally. Now I smell like the inside of a hardware store.” Bridget gave her a slow once-over. “You do look… productive.” “That’s a polite word,” Sally said. “We’re off to the supermarket,” Bridget announced, sliding her phone into her bag. “Real life calls. Milk, vegetables, non-philosophical items.” Sally perked up instantly. “Supermarket? Can I come?” Bridget lifted an eyebrow, amused. “I thought you were exhausted.” “I am. But in a good way.” Mia hid a smile behind her mug. Bridget pretended to consider it. “Only if you drive,” she said at last. Sally’s eyes lit up. “Deal.” “You’re not driving looking like that,” Bridget added, pointing vaguely at her daughter’s paint-splattered state. Sally looked down at herself and laughed. “Okay, fair.” “Shower. De-paint. Real clothes,” Bridget instructed lightly. “Five minutes,” Sally promised, already backing toward the stairs. “Ten,” Bridget corrected. “Eight!” Sally countered, disappearing around the corner. Mia shook her head fondly. “She grows up so fast,” she murmured. Bridget smiled into her coffee. “And still races to the supermarket like it’s an adventure.” Upstairs, water started running. Downstairs, the house felt lived in. Not a palace. Not a headline. Just a home where a girl who smelled like paint was excited to buy groceries — mostly because she got to drive. -- Sally insisted. “We’re taking the Fiesta.” Bridget paused halfway through reaching for the Mercedes keys. “We are three people.” “Yes.” “And the Fiesta is… compact.” “Yes.” “And Mia will be in the back.” Sally turned toward Mia with hopeful eyes. “It’s not that small.” Mia laughed softly. “I grew up with six cousins in one jeepney. I will survive, Miss Sally.” Bridget tried not to smile. “You don’t have to be polite.” “I am not being polite,” Mia said firmly. “I like the blue one. Roberto was washing it yesterday. Very neat car.” Sally beamed. “See? It has fans.” Bridget surrendered with a sigh. “Fine. But if we need to buy twenty-four bottles of sparkling water, you’re holding them.” “Deal.” The Fiesta started with its familiar hum. Sally adjusted the seat slightly, pressed the clutch, shifted into first with careful intention. She liked the way it felt. Mechanical. Honest. “Okay,” she muttered to herself as they pulled out. “Don’t stall. Don’t embarrass yourself. You’re being evaluated.” “I can hear you,” Bridget said mildly from the passenger seat. “That was for motivational purposes.” Mia leaned forward from the back, peering between the seats. “You drive very smoothly,” she observed. “I haven’t done anything yet,” Sally said, but she smiled anyway. Saturday traffic was thick. Miami sunlight bounced off windshields. The Fiesta felt small among the SUVs and polished luxury cars. She didn’t mind. She preferred it. They approached Whole Foods, and Sally felt confident—until she saw it. The ramp. It wasn’t gentle. It was steep. Narrow. And currently backed up with cars inching forward in a slow, tense procession. Sally’s fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Oh,” she said. Bridget followed her gaze. “You’ve done hills before.” “Not in traffic. Not with an audience. Besides, Florida is flat.” “I can close my eyes,” Bridget offered. “That’s worse.” They rolled forward. Stop. Inch. Stop. Clutch in. Neutral. Clutch out. Her left leg was suddenly very aware of its own existence and recent recovery. “You’ve got it,” Mia said quietly from the back. Not loud. Not anxious. Just steady. The car in front moved. Sally eased the clutch up slowly, holding the handbrake and feeling for the bite point. The Fiesta trembled slightly, then caught. No stall. They crawled higher. Another stop. Her heart thudded once. “Okay,” she breathed. “We are not panicking.” The SUV behind them rolled a little too close for comfort. “Ignore him,” Bridget said calmly. “He can wait.” The ramp tilted upward sharply near the top. The car in front hesitated. Sally did not. Clutch. Gas. Handbrake. Release. The engine growled just enough. The Fiesta surged forward smoothly, cleanly, like it had something to prove. They reached the top. She turned into the parking level and exhaled in one long breath. “You did it!” Mia said, clapping softly from the back seat. Sally laughed, adrenaline spilling into relief. “I did it.” She found a spot, angled carefully, reversed with exaggerated concentration, and parked. Perfectly centered. Engine off. Silence. Bridget looked at her daughter for a moment. “Manual Porsche,” she said lightly. “You’ll survive.” Sally grinned, leaning back in her seat. “If it has a ramp, I’m ready.” Mia opened the back door and stepped out, shaking her head with admiration. “Very good control, Miss Sally.” Sally stepped out too, sunlight hitting her face, a little wind lifting her still-damp hair from the shower. It was just a supermarket. Just a ramp. Just a small car. But she felt ten feet tall. -- Bridget did, in fact, put twenty-four bottles in the cart. “Technically, I warned you,” she said sweetly. Sally stared at the shrink-wrapped stack of Perrier and narrowed her eyes. “Those are small.” “They are,” Bridget agreed. “But they are twenty-four.” Mia laughed under her breath as she steered the cart toward produce. “We believe in hydration.” In the end, the groceries were reasonable. It was a work week ahead — early mornings at the Pembroke-Weiss Foundation, lunches between meetings, dinners at home. Nothing extravagant. Just vegetables, fruit, yogurt, bread, eggs. Adrian and Roberto had already promised to handle the heavier restock — bulk cleaning supplies, paper goods, practical things that made a large house run quietly and efficiently. “This is the glamorous side of wealth,” Bridget said, placing organic spinach into the cart. “Paper towels.” “Very aspirational,” Sally replied. But she couldn’t resist. Chocolate donuts found their way in. Then a bright green bottle of something labeled with impossible promises about gut health and vitality. Then a bar of dark chocolate “for emergencies.” Bridget noticed. “I don’t remember putting those in.” “You didn’t,” Sally said calmly. “But we’re building character.” Mia shook her head, smiling. “Teenagers are the same everywhere.” Checkout was uneventful. No stares. No drama. Just three women unloading groceries like anyone else. And when they reached the parking ramp again, Sally braced herself instinctively. “Round two,” she muttered. “At least we’re going down”. The trunk swallowed everything. Even the Perrier. Sally stepped back and gestured grandly. “Behold. Cavernous.” Bridget raised an eyebrow. “It is surprisingly practical.” “It’s underestimated,” Sally said, patting the rear of the car affectionately. “Like me.” “Let’s not get poetic in the parking lot,” Bridget replied. The drive home was easy. The late afternoon sun softened everything, turning Coral Gables into a lazy postcard. Porsches glided past. Ferraris purred at intersections. A McLaren flashed by in metallic orange. Sally stayed in her lane, hands steady on the wheel. At one point, she found herself neatly sandwiched between an Aston Martin ahead and the McLaren behind as they entered the Residents Only lane toward Old Cutler Bay. She glanced in the mirror. Then forward. Then down at her steering wheel. “Don’t stall,” she whispered. “I heard that,” Bridget said. “I’m just saying. It would be socially awkward.” She didn’t stall. The Fiesta moved smoothly, modestly, unbothered by horsepower politics. They turned headed down Solano Prado, palm trees arching overhead, light flickering across the windshield. Sally felt a quiet, satisfied smile tug at her lips. Ferraris could cruise. McLarens could roar. But she was driving herself home. And that felt pretty good. -- The driveway filled up at the same time. Sally had just popped the trunk of the Fiesta when the deep, satisfied growl of her father’s BMW M5 rolled in behind them. The trunk of that car looked like it had swallowed half a warehouse. Roberto stepped out first, already shaking his head. “Mr. Weiss,” he began, dramatic and wounded, “you have been living in terrible conditions.” Adrian closed the driver’s door slowly. “Terrible.” “Very bad,” Roberto insisted. “The yard—neglected. The hedges? Improperly trimmed. And cleaning…” He lowered his voice. “Cleaning people without pride.” Mia nodded meekly beside Bridget. “It was… different.” Sally blinked. “We weren’t living in a jungle.” Roberto pointed at the house as if presenting evidence. “Not jungle. But almost.” Adrian sighed theatrically. “Apparently, I have been suffering and didn’t know it.” “You were suffering,” Roberto confirmed gravely. Sally laughed, lifting two grocery bags at once. “Well, the cavalry has returned.” They began unloading both cars. The Perrier stack emerged from the Fiesta like a trophy. Bridget glanced at it. “You survived the ramp.” “I conquered the ramp,” Sally corrected. Roberto looked impressed. “With a manual!” “Always,” Sally replied with unnecessary seriousness. As they carried the last boxes inside, Sally turned to Mia, curiosity nudging through the chatter. “Where are you staying?” “Near Dadeland,” Mia said. “Next door to Theresa and Jana. Nice apartment. Very elegant. Private.” “Oh,” Sally nodded. “That’s like ten minutes away.” She paused. “How do you move around?” Roberto shrugged lightly. “Theresa and Jana have been driving us. And Uber.” Sally stopped walking. “Uber?” she repeated. Roberto looked at Adrian. Adrian, already anticipating the expression forming on his daughter’s face, raised a hand. “Next week they’ll have a car.” Sally looked at Mia. Then at her Fiesta. Then back at Mia. Without another word, she reached into her pocket, pulled out the keys, and held them out. “Take mine.” Mia blinked. “No, Miss Sally. We can manage.” “You can,” Sally agreed. “But you shouldn’t have to.” “It is fine,” Mia insisted gently. Sally frowned, not stubborn—just practical. “This isn’t Zurich. You can’t walk everywhere. And you shouldn’t have to wait for Uber or coordinate schedules.” She tilted her head slightly. “You’ll be better off with your own car. Go out. Have a date. Live.” Mia hesitated. Roberto looked at Adrian silently. Adrian gave a small nod. Roberto straightened and gave Sally a slight, respectful bow. “Thank you, Miss Sally. We will take good care of it.” Sally pointed at the gleaming Fiesta in the driveway, sunlight bouncing off its freshly washed paint. “You already did.” Roberto smiled. Mia finally took the keys, holding them carefully, almost ceremonially. “Only until ours arrives,” she said. “Of course,” Sally replied. Adrian watched the exchange quietly. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just his daughter, standing barefoot in the driveway, giving away her car like it was the most normal thing in the world. Bridget slipped her hand into his. “She’ll want it back,” Adrian murmured. “Oh, definitely,” Bridget whispered back. Sally clapped her hands once. “Okay. Who’s hungry? We bought donuts.” Roberto’s eyebrows lifted. “See?” Sally grinned. “Terrible living conditions are officially over.” -- Roberto and Mia didn’t linger. They never did. Once the last of the groceries were stacked, the counters wiped, and tomorrow’s breakfast quietly set in motion, they gathered their things with soft goodnights. “Monday morning,” Mia reminded gently. “Bright and early,” Roberto added. Sally hugged Mia once more, quick and tight. “Text me if you need anything.” “We have your car,” Roberto said with a grin. “We are already blessed.” Sally rolled her eyes but smiled. The house exhaled when the door closed behind them. Evening settled. The lights were dimmed. The kitchen cleaned. The air-conditioning hummed softly against the warm Miami night pressing at the windows. Sally ended up sideways on the long sofa without quite meaning to. Her legs stretched across the cushions, and after a minute she simply tipped her head back into her father’s lap as if she had done it yesterday. Adrian didn’t comment. His hand came up automatically, resting lightly against her arm. Her Kindle glowed faintly in the dim room. Bridget sat close beside Adrian, her head leaning against his shoulder, tablet resting in her lap. The three of them formed a loose, unspoken shape of familiarity. No phones buzzing. No meetings. Just pages turning. Sally shifted slightly. “Church is early,” she murmured without looking up. “Nine,” Bridget confirmed softly. “That’s early.” “It is not,” Adrian replied calmly. Sally made a quiet sound of disagreement but kept reading. Minutes passed. The ice in Adrian’s glass clinked gently as he lifted what was left of his brandy. The amber caught the low light. Bridget eventually stirred. “I need to use the bathroom,” she announced softly, untangling herself from Adrian’s shoulder. Sally yawned immediately. Wide. Unapologetic. “Contagious,” Adrian observed. Bridget paused, looking down at her daughter’s face tilted toward the ceiling. “Time.” Sally blinked at her Kindle as if betrayed by it. “I’m not that tired.” Another yawn interrupted her. Adrian’s hand gave her shoulder a small squeeze. “Upstairs.” Sally groaned quietly but didn’t argue. She swung her legs down and sat up, rubbing her eyes. “You coming?” she asked her mother. “Yes,” Bridget said, already moving toward the stairs. Sally followed meekly, pausing halfway up to glance back. “You coming?” she repeated. “In a minute,” Adrian said, lifting his glass slightly. “I’ll be right up.” “Don’t fall asleep on the sofa,” Sally warned. “I don’t,” he replied. “You do.” He smiled faintly. “Go to bed.” Sally disappeared around the corner at the top of the stairs, her footsteps softer now. Adrian sat alone for a moment longer, the house quiet, the brandy nearly finished, the weight of the week settling into something gentle. Upstairs, doors clicked shut. Tomorrow was church. And sleep came easily in a house that felt, for once, completely in place.

You could try sockshop, or sockdreams. I generally buy my socks from sockshop - they've got a lot of child-appropriate socks in adult sizes. Good luck!