Baby Talk

I'm currently wearing one of my All-In-One-Company onesies.  This one has feet and hood (its supposed to be a tiger, but the fabric is brown, not orange!!).   But, got a Crinklz on underneath.   Enjoying this while I work from home (though it's my typical evening attire after getting home from work in the colder months anyway).   I miss A-I-O-Co .... I was trying to order another right during the ownership transition.    Now they market ugly junk. 

Aww I feel so bad for him 

Aww, I got tricked by the 26 in the date and thought there was a new chapter

Sally’s weekend should feel like a soft exhale: a rare night in her parents’ room, teasing about racetracks and “motor heads,” a quiet Sunday where church feels less like performance and more like family. Even James Anderson’s questions land gently, drawing out the sharp, brave edges of Sally’s new faith and her stubborn hunger to do the next right thing, one step at a time. But as the hours pass, the warmth starts to fray at the seams, replaced by little things nobody wants to name: the chills in the hallway, the raw throat she keeps swallowing past, the bone-deep sleep that hits like a switch and doesn’t give her back what it takes. By nightfall she’s hiding behind cozy and soup, choosing comfort over concern, until morning arrives and the house is too still—Sally still asleep, blinds unchanged, no movement upstairs—and Jana, coffee in hand, pauses at the staircase with a frown that says the same thought Bridget won’t say out loud yet: what if this isn’t just tired?   Chapter 149 – Keep it Serious It wasn’t usual for Sally to be in her parents’ bedroom. Not like this. Not perched cross-legged on the edge of their bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, while her mother sipped tea from a porcelain cup and her father packed with the calm efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times. Saturday evening had settled gently over the house. Lamps were on, curtains half-drawn, the world outside slowed. Sunday still belonged to them. Monday did not. “Driving training went well?” Adrian asked without turning, folding a stack of shirts still crisp in their plastic sleeves and laying them carefully into the suitcase. Sally smiled, the kind that crept in before words did. “It was amazing. I felt like an amateur,” she laughed. “In the best way.” Adrian paused, arched an eyebrow. “That’s not what Morgan told me.” Sally looked up, suddenly alert. “She said you were perceptive. Quick to adapt. And,” he added, glancing over his shoulder, “dangerously enthusiastic.” Bridget smiled over the rim of her tea, proud and amused in equal measure. Sally shrugged, trying and failing to play it down. “It just… made sense. The skid pad, the cones, learning weight transfer. And the track?” She shook her head. “I didn’t realize how much thinking goes into driving. It’s not just reflex. It’s planning.” Adrian chuckled. “You wait until you’re taking the F-40 around Spa. Nothing like it.” Sally frowned slightly. “Spa?” “Spa-Francorchamps. Belgium. Legendary track,” he said, warming instantly to the subject. “Laguna Seca is brilliant too, but getting the F-40 there would be a logistical nightmare. You could keep a car here, though. Build one. Learn it. Track by track.” Sally’s eyes lit up— “Stop.” Bridget raised one finger, gentle but immovable. She studied both of them. “One day at a time, motor heads. There will be plenty of time for racetracks and car obsessions. Slow is good.” Sally smiled sheepishly. “It does sound fun.” “It is,” Adrian agreed, sliding a pair of jeans into the case. Sally’s gaze drifted back to the suitcase. “How long will you be gone?” Adrian pressed his lips together. “A week. Osaka, Frankfurt, back.” She tilted her head. “You say that like it’s next door.” He shrugged. “The Gulfstream helps.” Bridget reached out and rested her hand briefly on Sally’s knee. The moment held—ordinary, warm, full. And quietly, undeniably, precious. -- They had settled into a quiet triangle on the bed, the movie already playing but not really commanding anyone’s full attention. Bridget had been efficient about it—snacks arranged on a tray, drinks within reach, lights dimmed just enough to soften the room. She had also, without ceremony, made sure Sally was in her pajamas and prepared for sleep—and that meant diapers. “Just in case,” she’d said, with that tone that allowed no debate. “It’s not like I’m going to fall asleep or anything,” Sally muttered now, tugging at the sleeve of her pajama top. The protest was mostly ceremonial. Bridget didn’t even look at her. “You always fall asleep on my bed.” Sally scoffed. “I cannot remember the last time I slept on your bed.” Bridget turned her head slowly, eyebrow raised. “However,” she said calmly, “there is a history.” Adrian, propped against the headboard, glanced between them and smiled. “She’s right,” he added, entirely unhelpful. Then, with a playful wink at Sally, “Go on. Obey your mother.” Sally groaned and slid off the bed, feet padding against the rug. “You are having way too much fun as a dad since you married Mom.” “And you love it,” Adrian replied without hesitation. Sally paused at the foot of the bed, lips pressed together, pretending to consider the accusation. Then she shrugged, one shoulder lifting. “So what if I do?” she said, glancing back at them. Bridget smiled, soft and full, and patted the space beside her. “Come back before the opening credits end.” Sally climbed back onto the bed a little later, settling in with exaggerated reluctance that fooled no one, curling slightly toward her mother. The soft bulk between her legs confirmed she was ready for bed. The movie began, but the room had already found its own rhythm—quiet, warm, and unremarkably perfect. Normal, in the way only their version of normal ever was. -- Sunday moved with a relaxed kind of efficiency, the sort that came from habit rather than hurry. By the time the kitchen filled with morning light, Sally was already dressed, her loose white dress floating around her knees when she hopped up to sit on the counter. Her handbag rested beside her, matched neatly to her shoes in a way that felt intentional without being showy. Church-appropriate. Quiet. Right. “Toasted bagel?” Bridget asked, already reaching for the bread. Sally nodded. “Yes, please.” Then she tilted her head, studying her mother. “You’re wearing loose dresses now?” Bridget glanced down at herself and shrugged, unfazed. “We’re planning to break the news at the end of the month. Until then, stealth mode.” She turned, knife in hand. “Cream cheese?” “Thanks.” Sally accepted the bagel and took a bite just as Bridget poured her a cup of coffee and slid it toward her. Sally smiled around the mouthful. “I feel pampered.” “That’s because you are,” Bridget replied lightly. Sally looked around the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?” “Being lazy,” Bridget said. “He’ll probably have breakfast on the road.” Sally’s eyes brightened. “While I drive?” “Maybe,” Bridget teased, not committing. “I want to drive Dad’s M5,” Sally murmured, half to herself, half hopeful. “Not a chance.” Adrian’s voice came from the staircase as he descended, already in his jacket, travel mug in hand. He crossed into the kitchen, pouring coffee with practiced speed. “Just because you tracked a BMW doesn’t give you rights over my M5.” “Says who?” Sally challenged. “Says the insurance,” Adrian replied without missing a beat, “and common sense.” He snapped the lid onto his mug and glanced at her. “How about the red Mercedes SUV? That good enough?” Sally considered it, then shrugged. “For now.” Bridget laughed, shaking her head as she gathered her things. “You two.” They headed out together into a warm, muggy morning, clouds hanging low over Miami in that soft, heavy way that promised nothing dramatic. The kind of Sunday that unfolded gently—windows down, coffee warm in hand, and the quiet comfort of knowing exactly where they were going. -- Sally had known it the moment she set the plate down. Her eyes had absolutely been bigger than her stomach. The potluck table had been impossible to resist—two kinds of salad she didn’t recognize but took anyway, a generous scoop of ropa vieja, and a piece of fried chicken that looked too perfect to ignore. It was the kind of spread that made restraint feel almost impolite. Now she nudged the food around with her fork, more contemplative than hungry. The Florida “cool” weather wrapped around her anyway—soft, warm, faintly humid—and she shook her head with a faint smile. Locals called this chilly. She’d stop arguing eventually, she supposed. She did, however, fully commit to the sweet, iced tea. That, at least, made sense. Cold, sugary, comforting. It went down easily, and she refilled her cup once without even thinking about it. When a cheerful volunteer appeared to clear plates, Sally blinked, glanced down at her half-eaten meal, and winced. “Sorry,” she said instinctively. “I thought I was hungrier.” The woman laughed it off. “Happens every Sunday, sweetheart.” Sally watched her plate disappear and felt a small wave of relief rather than regret. She leaned back in her chair, sipping the last of her tea, grateful that her parents were fully absorbed across the room. Adrian and Bridget stood near the front pews, deep in animated conversation with one of the elders, hands moving, heads nodding, entirely engaged. Sally took the moment for what it was: a pause. Warm air, gentle noise, the low hum of voices and laughter around her. Normal life, she thought—not simple, not light, but good in the quiet spaces where no one expected anything from her at all. -- Sally lingered where she was, iced tea still in hand, and let her gaze drift back to the front of the sanctuary. Her parents were seated in the front pews, an extra chair pulled close. The elder with them—James Anderson, she was fairly sure—leaned forward as he spoke, hands folded, head nodding with quiet emphasis. What caught Sally’s attention wasn’t the conversation itself, but the rhythm of it. Every few seconds, Mr. Anderson glanced up. At her. Then nodded. Her mother followed his gaze once, then again, offering a small, polite smile in Sally’s direction before returning to the conversation. Adrian did the same, casual but unmistakable. Sally’s mouth tightened into a thin line. Oh. Great. She’d seen her parents talk with elders before—plenty of times. Usually she gave them space, pretended not to notice, wandered off to help stack chairs or refill pitchers. But this time felt different. This time, she was the subject. She pushed herself up from her chair just as her mother caught her eye and gave the smallest motion with her fingers: come here. Sally had taken maybe three steps when she was intercepted from both sides. “Being summoned by Mr. Anderson?” Theresa asked, appearing out of nowhere with a crooked smile. Sally stopped short. “Not officially,” she muttered. “But I’m pretty sure they’re talking about me. They’re taking way too much interest.” Jana tilted her head, studying Sally with mock seriousness. “Well,” she said, “you are interesting. I’ll give you that much.” “That is not comforting,” Sally replied, folding her arms. Theresa laughed. “We’re heading out. Holy siesta awaits.” “And then Jana will pretend to do something intelligent,” Theresa continued smoothly, “while I get ahead on my reading.” “Which she will then dramatically abandon,” Jana added, “so she can quiz me on things she already knows.” “Maybe an epic video chat with a certain gentleman?” Theresa teased. Jana snorted. “Maybe. And then I’ll pretend I’m not listening while you monologue.” Sally smiled despite herself. “Say hi to Niklas for me.” “I just might,” Jana said dryly, already stepping back. They waved and disappeared toward the exit, leaving Sally standing there for half a second longer than she wanted to be. She exhaled, straightened her shoulders, and walked toward the front. Mr. Anderson looked up as she approached, unsurprised, his expression warm and open, as if this had been expected all along. -- They rose together almost instinctively. Bridget spoke first, her tone light, careful not to make it sound heavier than it was. “Honey, we’ve been chatting with James, and he’d like to get to know you a little better—if you’re okay with that.” Adrian looked relaxed, even faintly pleased, hands resting loosely at his sides. Sally glanced from her parents to the elder standing opposite them. James Anderson’s smile was open, unhurried, the kind that didn’t corner you. Sally shrugged, a soft, almost shy motion. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?” “Have a seat, Sally,” James said warmly, gesturing to the pew. She sat, folding her arms more out of instinct than defiance, suddenly aware of the cool air brushing against her bare forearms. Was the air conditioning on? Florida had a strange sense of irony. Bridget squeezed her shoulder gently before stepping back beside Adrian. “We’ll be right here when you’re finished.” James took the chair opposite her, crossing his legs with an ease that suggested he had done this many times before—but never as an interrogation. “Well,” he began, resting his hands loosely on his knee, “you’ve been with us a few weeks now. It’s only natural we get to know one another. Churches are families, after all. Pastor Dan from Connecticut mentioned you’d be joining us.” He paused, then smiled again. “He also said you’re a fairly new believer.” Sally nodded, her arms tightening slightly. “About six months. Give or take.” “Your parents gave me a brief overview,” he continued gently. “But I didn’t want to pass you over. They mentioned something that caught my attention. They said you were instrumental in their own faith journey.” Sally blinked. “Me?” She leaned back a little, genuinely puzzled. “I mean… I was first, yes. But lead?” She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “I was in the hospital not long after. Hard to lead anyone when you’re mostly unconscious.” James nodded, unoffended. “Still, they felt your influence mattered.” Sally’s mouth curved into a faint smile. “I suppose seeing your daughter in a hospital bed can do that,” she said quietly. “It gives… perspective.” He studied her for a moment, then said softly, “Many people are confronted with mortality every day and still choose to ignore God. I’m curious—how soon after your conversion did the accident happen?” She hesitated, counting silently. “About two days,” she said at last. “Friday night, I gave my life to Christ. Sunday evening… the accident.” Her gaze drifted away, memories rushing in uninvited. James caught it immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We can change the subject if you’d rather.” She shook her head, slowly. “No. It’s okay. It’s just… a long story.” “How did it affect your faith,” he asked carefully, “happening so soon after?” Sally pressed her lips together, then exhaled. When she looked back at him, there was a steadiness there that surprised even her. “It made it real,” she said simply. He leaned back slightly, studying her with a patience that wasn’t clinical but pastoral, the kind that waits without rushing the answer. “How,” he asked softly, “did it make it real?” Sally kept her arms folded over her chest, not defensive so much as bracing herself. She swallowed, cleared her throat, and for a moment her gaze fixed on a knot in the wood of the pew. “Mr. Anderson… when I converted, I didn’t half-do it,” she said quietly. “I gave Jesus everything. My plans. My future. My dreams. All of it.” She gave a small, humorless breath. “What I didn’t realize was that He might want more than that. A lot more.” James didn’t interrupt. “The first time I realized the plane was going down,” she continued, voice thinning just slightly, “I was angry. Like—really angry. I remember thinking, Are you serious? Already? I’ve barely started. I haven’t even lived for You yet.” Her fingers tightened against her sleeves. “And then… it shifted.” She looked up at him now, eyes steady but bright. “It hit me that if God wanted me—really wanted me—then I didn’t get to bargain. I couldn’t say, Just wait until I’m older. Or after I’ve done something meaningful. If He wanted me then… He could have me.” She paused, breathing carefully, as if measuring the weight of the memory. “But that moment?” she added, more quietly. “That was terrifying. I was still human. I was still fifteen. I wanted my parents. I wanted my life. I wanted time.” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Faith didn’t make the fear go away. It just meant I wasn’t alone inside it.” James remained still, eyes soft, hands folded loosely in his lap. When he spoke again, his voice carried reverence. “That,” he said gently, “is a very real faith.” Sally exhaled, shoulders easing just a fraction, as if she’d finally set something heavy down between them. Sally shifted on the pew, arms still crossed, but her shoulders had softened now, the tension slowly unthreading. “What still bugs me,” she said after a moment, eyes fixed somewhere past the pulpit, “is that after the crash—when I realized I was alive—the pain, the fear… I forgot about God.” She swallowed. “All that time in the hospital, I didn’t pray. I didn’t feel Him. Nothing. Until much later.” Her voice dipped. “And I keep thinking I should have. Like… I failed some test.” Mr. Anderson shook his head gently, almost immediately. “No,” he said. “What happened to you was real. Real trauma. Real humanity.” He leaned forward slightly. “We forget God sometimes. Especially when we’re in shock. And He was still very new to you then.” He smiled softly. “But He never forgets us. And He never reproaches us for being weak.” Sally nodded, absorbing that. “Susan—Pastor Dan’s wife—she helped me through the worst of it. I was lost. I had so many questions.” She gave a small, crooked smile. “Still do.” “And were they answered?” Mr. Anderson asked, a hint of humor in his voice. Sally shrugged, the tension returning briefly. “Some. But what surprised me were all the new questions that kept popping up. About God. About life. About why things happen the way they do.” She paused. “That’s what kept me reading my Bible. Not answers—curiosity.” Mr. Anderson nodded approvingly. “That’s often how faith deepens. Not certainty. Hunger.” He tilted his head, studying her. “I had heard you’d been in an accident recently. I didn’t realize it was a plane crash.” Sally gave a breathy laugh. “Small jet. I was flying to Milan for a friend’s birthday. We went down shortly after takeoff.” She shrugged lightly. “I didn’t make the party. She celebrated six months later instead.” “A miracle,” Mr. Anderson murmured. “I guess so.” He hesitated, then added, “I also heard Theresa was in a plane crash.” Sally nodded. “She was with me. She… works for our family.” Mr. Anderson blinked, processing. “Ah. That explains how close you are.” Sally smiled faintly. “Jana works for us too. But they’re family to me. Theresa’s like my older sister.” Mr. Anderson pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “Theresa mentioned she came to Christ through you.” Sally froze for half a second. The memory rose uninvited: the FBO, the hurried conversation, the jet climbing, Theresa’s sudden stillness, the realization that something was terribly wrong. Closed eyes. Whispered words. Impact. She nodded slowly. “You’re making me sound like some… holy version of myself,” she said, almost protesting. Mr. Anderson shook his head. “No. I’m pointing out the way God has chosen to use you.” His voice was calm, unembellished. “To influence people. To touch lives. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re present.” He met her eyes. “Be humble—because it’s God’s work. But don’t dismiss it. He has been using you. And He still is.” Sally didn’t answer. She just sat there, breathing, eyes glossy but steady. For Mr. Anderson, that silence was more than enough. -- “Do you have any questions for me?” Mr. Anderson asked, his tone open, unhurried. Sally hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Baptism,” she said. “Aren’t I supposed to be baptized… or something?” She made a small, uncertain gesture with her hand. “I read about it a lot. Believe, be baptized… it keeps coming up.” James studied her face for a moment before answering. “You haven’t been baptized?” he asked, gently. She shook her head. “Not yet. I mean… I sort of ran out of time.” A rueful smile crossed her lips. “The crash, the hospital, rehab, then pneumonia—more hospital. Then my parents’ wedding. Life didn’t exactly slow down.” James leaned forward slightly. “Sally, God isn’t holding a stopwatch.” She nodded quickly. “I know, Mr. Anderson. I really do.” Her voice softened. “But I also know myself. And if I don’t say it out loud, it turns into procrastination. And then into fear. And then I start pretending it’s not important, when it actually is.” James smiled, something warm and approving in his eyes. Then he lifted a hand lightly. “Before I answer—just one thing.” He chuckled. “It’s James. I’m not a schoolmaster, and I’m too young—hopefully—for that kind of formality.” Sally pressed her lips together, then smiled. “James.” “There we go,” he said, pleased. “Now. Baptism.” He folded his hands loosely. “Baptism isn’t a hoop you jump through to stay in God’s good graces. It’s not a deadline you missed. It’s a declaration. A public yes.” He paused, letting that settle. “You’ve already said yes with your life. With your faith. With your choices.” Sally listened intently. “But,” he continued, “if your heart is pulling you toward it—if you feel that nudge—that matters. Baptism is obedience, yes. But it’s also celebration. It’s saying, ‘I belong.’” Sally swallowed. “I think I want that. Not because I feel pressured. But because I don’t want to hide.” James nodded slowly. “That’s a very good reason.” “So… what do I do?” she asked quietly. “We talk,” he said simply. “We pray. And when you’re ready, we set a day. No rush. No drama. Just joy.” Sally let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That sounds… right.” James smiled. “That’s usually how God’s invitations feel. Not heavy. Just clear.” -- Rain streaked across the windshield in fine, steady lines as Sally guided her mother’s SUV onto the familiar stretch of road home. The wipers moved on their own, sensing the rhythm of the drizzle and keeping time better than she could have. She liked that—systems doing their job quietly, predictably. It freed her mind just enough. Sunday traffic was light, cooperative. Nothing sharp. Nothing rushed. Adrian sat in the passenger seat, mostly silent. Not distracted—watchful. Sally could feel it without looking. Bridget rested in the back, her posture loose, content, the way she got when she felt safe and included. “So,” Adrian said at last, breaking the quiet, “we did mention baptism. James was very clear—no rush. He wants people rooted before they step into something public.” He paused. “He hinted some churches like to make a spectacle of it.” Sally nodded, eyes forward. “He said God isn’t holding a stopwatch.” Bridget smiled. “That makes sense.” The SUV hummed along. Sally felt the weight behind her eyes, a dull pressure that made her blink more than usual. Her throat felt dry, a little raw. Tired—not the dramatic kind. The deep kind that settles into your bones. She made a mental note: early night. No negotiating. She searched for something light to keep herself engaged. “He mentioned a Bible camp over Easter,” she said carefully. “Encouraged me to think about it.” Adrian glanced ahead at an eighteen-wheeler drifting slightly within its lane. “You interested?” “Maybe.” Sally checked her mirror, looked over her shoulder, then signaled and moved smoothly into the next lane, passing the truck without hesitation. “It’s in West Virginia.” Bridget leaned forward a little. “That sounds like an adventure.” “He said it doesn’t cost anything,” Sally added. “Invitation only. Sort of a discipleship thing for teens. Selected by local church leadership.” Adrian’s eyebrows lifted, pleased. “Sounds like he approved of you.” Sally didn’t answer right away. Her shoulders sagged just a fraction as she swallowed, trying to clear her throat without drawing attention. “It’s okay to be admired,” Bridget said gently, as if she’d sensed it. “You’re basically the favorite teen at church,” Adrian added, with a hint of amusement. Sally snorted. “I’m basically the only teen who shows up.” They all laughed quietly. “It’s a small church,” Adrian said. “But there are good things there.” “Not exactly a place for bench warmers,” Sally replied. Adrian nodded. “True. And you’re not one of them.” She smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” The conversation tapered off, replaced by the soft rush of tires on wet pavement. Adrian noticed it then—how calmly she held the lane, how early she read the traffic, how little effort it all seemed to take. Bridget noticed too, though she said nothing. Sally drove on, steady and sure, the rain no longer something to fight—just something to move through. -- Sally was slower than usual when she walked into the house, her steps heavy, her shoulders slightly rounded as if gravity had quietly been turned up. The air-conditioning kissed her bare arms and she shivered, an involuntary tremor that made her pause just inside the doorway. That’s new, she thought. She slipped off her shoes and set her handbag down with more care than necessary, as though noise itself might be too much. The white dress that had felt light and elegant at breakfast now felt thin, inadequate. All she wanted was cotton, warmth, stillness. “I’m going to change,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Her father caught up to her in the hallway and gave her back a gentle pat, lingering just long enough to say he’d noticed. “You did well today,” he said, quietly. Not about church, not about driving—about something larger and harder to name. Sally managed a small smile and tilted her head back to look at him. “M5-good enough?” she asked, hopeful as always, half teasing, half sincere. Adrian chuckled, the sound easy, affectionate. “Maybe sometime in the near-future-good-enough,” he replied. “Patience, darling. Your time will come.” She rolled her eyes, but without energy. “That’s what you said last time.” “And the time before that,” he agreed cheerfully. Sally padded upstairs, already unzipping her dress as she went. The house felt quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that pressed in instead of soothing. In her room, she swapped linen and polish for old lounge shorts and a soft T-shirt that had long since surrendered any claim to shape. She pulled on socks, then hesitated, adding a hoodie for good measure. When she climbed back down, Bridget was settling onto the sofa with a book, glasses perched low on her nose. “Everything okay?” her mother asked, looking up immediately. “Yeah,” Sally said too quickly, then corrected herself. “I’m just… tired. I think the week finally caught up with me.” Bridget studied her for a moment, the way mothers do when they already know more than they’re saying. “Go lie down if you want, honey. Sunday afternoons are made for that.” Sally nodded. “I think I will. Just for a bit.” She paused at the bottom of the stairs, another small chill running through her, followed by the faintest tickle in her throat. She swallowed, dismissed it. A nap, she told herself. That’s all. A good nap, and she’d be fine.  -- Sally didn’t even make it to the middle of the bed. She lay down sideways, hoodie still on, socks still on, the faint smell of detergent and sun clinging to her clothes. She kicked one foot free of habit, then gave up halfway through the second. Her phone was already in her hand; she set an alarm for two hours out of discipline more than hope. The screen dimmed. The room dimmed with it. Her diaper was on snugly. She was safe. Sleep took her like a switch being flipped. Not drifting. Not easing. Just—gone. Her body sank into the mattress with the unceremonious trust of someone who had nothing left to negotiate. Muscles unclenched without asking permission. Breath slowed, deep and even. The hoodie bunched slightly at her shoulders, cocooning warmth around her spine. She hadn’t bothered changing, hadn’t bothered thinking—she’d come prepared, practical as always, and her body accepted the safety of it without commentary. The soft plastic between her legs bore testament to that. Outside, the house went on living. Somewhere, a door opened and closed. Dishes clinked. Voices murmured. None of it reached her. When the alarm went off, it felt like it came from another universe. Sally surfaced slowly, dragged up through thick layers of sleep, confused by light and sound and the fact that she was still wearing everything. Her first thought was that it was morning. Her second was that she’d missed something important. Her third—vague, annoyed—was why her head felt stuffed with cotton.  She silenced the alarm with more force than necessary and lay there blinking at the ceiling, trying to remember where she was. Zurich? Miami? Track? Church? Oh. Home. She pushed herself upright, swayed a little, then sat still until the room stopped tilting. Her hair was a mess—flattened on one side, sticking up on the other—so she ran her fingers through it halfheartedly, enough to look less like she’d been in a minor accident with a pillow. That would have to do. Still in her hoodie, still in her clothes, Still in her diaper—it was only slightly wet—she padded downstairs, movements loose and unguarded, the way people move only when they’ve slept hard. She appeared in the living room doorway like an afterthought—eyes a little glassy, cheeks warm, expression soft and unfocused. Adrian looked up first. Bridget followed a beat later. “Well,” Adrian said gently, “there she is.” Sally blinked at them. “How long was I out?” she asked, voice rough, like it had to remember how to work. “Almost the full two hours,” Bridget said, smiling. “You slept like a stone.” Sally nodded slowly, processing this as if it were new information. “Yeah,” she murmured. “That tracks.” She stood there a moment longer, swaying just a touch, then wandered toward the sofa, still wrapped in sleep, still half elsewhere—a girl who had rested deeply, and needed it more than she’d realized. -- Sally forced herself to sit a little straighter, to shake off the cottony heaviness clinging to her limbs. It was her dad’s last evening at home, and that mattered. Tomorrow he’d be gone—proper gone—the kind of gone that crossed oceans and time zones and came back with jet lag and stories. Adrian was leaning against the counter, relaxed in that end-of-day way, talking as he always did when his mind was already halfway on the road. “Theresa arranged it all,” he said, matter-of-fact, but with a hint of admiration. “I prefer to compress things. One week, two continents. Osaka, then Frankfurt. In and out. That way I’m back in time for the foundation kickoff here—and the Miami office launch.” Sally blinked. “That’s… literally around the world,” she said. Adrian smiled. “That’s what happens when calendars collide.” Sally shifted on the sofa, curiosity cutting through her fog. “Is Theresa going with you?” She tilted her head, genuinely trying to picture it—Theresa in FBO lounges, long-haul flights, hotel elevators halfway across the globe. Adrian shook his head. “No. She doesn’t need to. She’s running most of it remotely.” He paused, then added, “We’ll have two Zurich interns trailing us. Bright kids. They’ll take marching orders from Theresa.” “Poor interns,” Sally murmured, then smiled faintly. “Lucky interns,” Adrian corrected. “They’ll learn more in a week than in a year of theory.” “It sounds like a big deal,” Sally said quietly. Her voice held something like awe. The scale of it. The reach. It stirred her, distracted her from the faint ache behind her eyes. Bridget appeared beside her with a mug, warm and fragrant, and pressed it into Sally’s hands without a word. “Thanks,” Sally murmured, wrapping her fingers around it. Bridget didn’t reply—just gave her that look. Observant. Gentle. Hawk-sharp. Sally pretended not to notice. “It is a big deal,” Adrian said, nodding. “It’s the culmination of a partnership that’s been years in the making. Heavy funding. Serious commitments.” He smiled slightly. “The Swiss banks are taking a healthy chunk.” Sally raised an eyebrow. “Of course they are.” “And Frankfurt…” Adrian went on, shrugging lightly. “Well. A lot of money passes through Frankfurt. You shake the right hands there, things move.” Sally took a sip of her tea. It soothed her throat, warmed her chest. She watched her father as he spoke—animated, focused, alive in his element—and felt a quiet comfort settle in her.  She loved seeing him like this. Energized. Purposeful. At home in the machinery of the world, even as he stood barefoot in his own kitchen. For a moment, the tiredness faded into the background, replaced by something steadier: the simple, grounding knowledge that this—this talking, this sharing, this being together before departure—mattered just as much as any flight plan. -- Sally had to give it to her mom—dinner was exactly what she hadn’t known she needed. She was still in her nap clothes, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair only half tamed. Normally she would have changed, but the warmth clinging to her from sleep had felt too precious to disturb. Cozy had won. And apparently, cozy paired very well with soup. Even in a wet diaper, which was wetter than before. She dipped her spoon again and sighed, content. “Your tomato soup is the best,” she declared. “And this garlic bread…” She paused, eyes closing briefly in reverence. “I mean. Come on.” Bridget turned slowly from the stove, eyebrow lifting, one hand settling on her hip. “Almost as good as Nitaya’s?” she asked, coolly. Sally froze. Just for a fraction of a second. Then she looked up, guilty but quick. “Home cooking gets you extra points,” she said wisely. “It’s in the rules.” Adrian laughed into his napkin. “Diplomatic,” he said, nodding. “Very nice, darling. You’re learning.” Bridget rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her as she slid a dish from the oven. “I hope you like the mac and cheese,” she announced. “Made with love.” Sally’s eyes went wide. “I thought I smelled something divine,” she murmured, sitting up straighter. When Bridget finally joined them at the table, the rhythm of the evening softened. The practical talk of the day—schedules, weather, errands—faded, replaced by something quieter, more intimate. Adrian reached for Bridget’s hand almost absentmindedly. “I hate leaving like this,” he said, voice low. “Right when everything feels… settled.” Bridget squeezed his fingers. “You’re not leaving us,” she said gently. “You’re just going far away for a little while.” “A very long little while,” he countered. She smiled at him, fond and steady. “We’ve done longer distances with less certainty.” Sally focused on her plate, pushing the pasta around more than eating it. She listened without intruding, pretending not to notice the way their voices softened when they spoke to each other, or how Adrian’s thumb traced slow, familiar circles against Bridget’s hand. Her appetite had ebbed somewhere between the soup and the conversation. Her throat felt better—almost normal—but a dull headache pressed behind her eyes now, and there was a strange heaviness low in her stomach. Not pain. Just… weight. She didn’t say anything. She lifted her glass instead, taking a long sip of lemonade. It was perfect—soft, tangy, cool—sliding easily down her throat, bright enough to wake her senses without demanding effort. Bridget noticed, of course. She always did. But she didn’t comment—just watched Sally with that quiet, motherly radar, filing the moment away. Adrian leaned back in his chair, exhaling. “I’ll call every day,” he said, half promise, half reassurance. “You always do,” Bridget replied. “And you’ll text me when you land,” Sally added quietly. Adrian smiled at her. “That too. Although I can do it in the air as well” Sally nodded, managing a small smile of her own, and took another careful bite. The evening was gentle. Loving. Whole. And even as her body whispered that something was off, she chose—just for tonight—to listen to the warmth instead. -- They drifted into the living room without really deciding to. It was the natural gravity of the house in the evening, the way the sofa seemed to wait for them when the day had been spent. Sally reached the remote first. “I’m putting something on,” she announced, already scrolling. “Dealer’s choice,” Adrian said, dropping back into the corner of the sofa with a sigh that carried the weight of airports and time zones. Sally settled on a travel vlog—soft voices, sweeping drone shots, trains gliding through mountains and markets opening at dawn. Familiar, soothing. Non-demanding. Bridget curled in beside Adrian almost automatically, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm finding its way around her with the kind of ease that came from habit and affection layered together. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. Sally sat at the opposite end of the sofa, legs tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her diaper was getting clammy, but it could wait. She pretended very hard not to notice her parents. Pretended to be absorbed in the screen, in the muted colors and distant places. The truth was simpler. She was exhausted. The kind of tired that made your eyes sting just a little too long when you blinked. The kind that softened the edges of sound. The kind that made the idea of standing up feel negotiable. She shifted, stifled a yawn, then tried—and failed—to hide another. Bridget noticed. Of course she did. “You okay, honey?” she asked softly. Sally nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… comfy.” She watched another minute of the video. Snowy landscapes. Someone whispering into a microphone about morning light and quiet cafés. Then she exhaled and sat up. “Actually,” she said casually, a little too casually, “I think I’ll go finish this upstairs.” Adrian glanced over. “Tired already?” Sally shrugged. “A little. And,” she added, standing, “you two probably want some time alone before tomorrow.” Bridget smiled at her—warm, grateful, understanding all at once. “That’s very considerate of you.” Sally made a face. “Don’t make it weird.” Adrian chuckled. “Sleep well, kiddo.” She leaned down, kissed her mother’s cheek, then her father’s, lingering just a second longer than usual. Then she picked up her phone, and padded toward the stairs. At the landing, she paused and glanced back. Her parents were already closer together again, murmuring softly, the glow of the screen washing over them. Sally smiled to herself. Then she went upstairs, letting the house grow quiet behind her. -- Sally brushed her teeth and washed her face. She felt a bit better, the cool water cooling her warm forehead. She let her pants fall to her ankles, and changed her wet diaper. Her mom hadn’t said anything to her, but a couple knowing looks at her midriff informed Sally she was aware. As she always was. After checking the diaper was on properly, she pulled her pants back up and shuffled to her bedroom. Sally flopped onto her bed and reached for the remote, the familiar glow of the TV washing over the room. She scrolled past the travel vlog without hesitation this time—mountains and trains suddenly felt like too much effort—and landed on a car channel she followed religiously. A thumbnail filled the screen: Porsche 718 versus 911. Head versus heart. “Here we go,” she murmured, already pulling the covers up around her shoulders. Her weeklong driving course had left a mark on her YouTube algorithm.  She tucked herself in properly, knees bent, hoodie still on, the blanket heavy and reassuring. The host’s voice flowed easily through the room, confident and enthusiastic, talking about balance, mid-engine purity, steering feel. Then power figures. Heritage. Emotion. The inevitable argument that had no real winner. Sally’s eyes stayed on the screen, but her thoughts wandered. Agility sounded smart. Power sounded intoxicating. Reason told her one thing, her heart whispered another. She smiled faintly at the idea that some decisions were never meant to be solved—only felt. At some point, the voices blurred. The numbers stopped meaning anything. She blinked hard, trying to focus, then laughed quietly at herself when she realized she’d missed an entire segment. “Okay… that’s enough,” she whispered. She turned the TV off, the room falling into a softer darkness, lit only by the faint glow from outside. She rolled onto her side, pulling the pillow close and hugging it instinctively, curling inward the way she always did when she was truly tired. The diaper comfortably followed her contortions, and she felt grounded by it. Her nose felt warm and blocked, her head heavy, like gravity had decided to settle there for the night. Her body ached—not sharply, just enough to remind her how full the day had been. She closed her eyes. Sleep didn’t come instantly, but it hovered close, patient. Sally breathed slowly, deliberately, willing herself to let go. The cars, the choices, the noise of the world all faded into the background. For now, there was nothing to decide. Only rest. -- Sally didn’t get the sleep she had been hoping for. The night dragged itself along in a strange half-world, where exhaustion pressed down on her chest but never quite let her go. She drifted in and out of something that felt like sleep but wasn’t—dreams without shape, scenes without edges. Faces appeared and vanished. Sounds echoed and dissolved before she could grasp them. At some point, her body must have given in. She didn’t hear the soft efficiency of her father’s early-morning departure, the low murmur of voices outside, the discreet arrival of the VIP car that took Adrian to Opa-Locka and onward to Osaka. Normally, that kind of movement would have pulled her awake immediately. This time, it didn’t. Morning crept in quietly. Pale light filtered through the blinds, painting faint stripes across her bed, her hoodie, the edge of her pillow. Sally turned once, buried her face deeper into the pillow, and sank into a heavier sleep—thick, restless, the kind that leaves you more exhausted than before. Downstairs, just before eight, Jana’s black Ford Fusion rolled into the driveway and came to a stop. She sat for a moment before turning off the engine, scanning the quiet street out of habit. Then her gaze lifted to the house. No jogger coming back up the road. No movement upstairs. Blinds still down. That wasn’t normal. Jana frowned slightly, grabbed her backpack, and let herself inside. “Morning, Jana,” Bridget called out from the living room, her voice warm and relaxed. “Morning, Bridget,” Jana replied, slipping off her sunglasses. “Where’s Sally?” Bridget gestured toward the kitchen island, where a tray with coffee mugs and a carafe sat waiting. “Still asleep. She looked a little rough last night, so I let her sleep in. Feel free to wake her up.” Jana lifted an eyebrow as she poured herself coffee. Bridget looked… suspiciously cheerful. Post-goodbye glow, Jana decided. Love birds. “She’s never still asleep at this hour,” Jana said, more to herself than anyone else. “She’s allowed an off morning,” Bridget replied lightly. “Especially after the week she’s had.” Jana took a sip, thoughtful. “Falls to the assistant, then.” Bridget laughed. “You make a very good one. She’s responded well to you.” Jana glanced toward the staircase, coffee mug warming her hands. “We’ll see how she responds to me in five minutes.” She set the mug down and headed for the stairs—already bracing herself for whatever version of Sally Weiss this morning was about to reveal.

Hibiya ok then I´ll show you and if you wanna ask more you can and then let me hear what's on your mind    Hibiya unbuttoned her coat, and revealed she wore nothing underneath but a pink onesie with all kinds of cute baby like decorations. a further look at her made Kai realise that just like Aldra looking very young Hibiya did too. Although Hibiya still looked older then Aldra.   Hibiya: I bet I know what you're thinking.