Indeed!

Also in Kalispell. ✋🙂 ...Unfortunately. 😒

Chapter 6  As we reached the second floor landing from above, the queue of my classmates was arriving from below, so we joined at the end and followed them back to the classroom. Morisawa-sensei guided us inside, then left to teach another Japanese class. Shortly after we were back at our desks with our gym clothes returned to our backpacks, Miller-sensei, our English teacher from Canada, arrived, and we all took our completed homework from our backpacks and passed it forward to be collected.  The class proceeded largely as the previous ones had, except that it was conducted in English. Hanako was of course quick to raise her hand, and Miller-sensei called on her. Hanako’s diction was, from what I could tell, as good as a native speaker’s. As a ghost, could she make the sounds that English had and Japanese didn’t because she didn’t need to use a mouth to speak? Had she learned how to say them from a classmate like the Sekigahara thing? Did she remember them from her life without knowing how she learned them? If she was of mixed heritage or had spent time overseas, those could be clues the soon-to-be-formed Hanako’s Mystery Club could use to figure out who she was when she was alive. Or maybe as a ghost she didn’t make sounds at all and the idea of what she wanted to say came into our heads directly. Another thing I had to ask her when I had a moment.  When the lesson was over, Miller-sensei took a bundle of homework printouts from his bag and started counting pages and putting a small stack at each front desk. At the front of my file, he looked at Hanako and I and deliberately counted out one extra sheet. When the stack reached me, I counted the pages, and there were enough for me to take an extra copy for Hanako and still have enough for everyone behind me. I wonder if he’d overheard Yamaguchi-sensei griping about having to do it and realized he should too. “Thank you, Miller-sensei,” Hanako said in her perfect English. He nodded and smiled as he left to supervise his own homeroom for lunch.  Before Morisawa-sensei even made it back to watch us, the students on Lunch Duty left to go to the school’s kitchen, and soon returned with the trolley with our class’s food and dishes. They announced the menu of soup, vegetables, and meat, including where in the country the key ingredients came from, while the rest of us lined up to be served. Since I had Hanako Duty, Hanako and I went to the back of the line, for good reason. I took the chance to trickle a little more pee into my diaper while we waited our turn.   The Lunch Duty crew were making an efficient assembly line of serving the food, with one scooping the rice into a rice bowl, another spooning soup into the soup bowl, one for the vegetables, one for the meat, and one placing the dishes on the tray with a milk carton and chopsticks giving it to the next person in line. It only took a few minutes before I reached the front, and they handed me my tray, which I pressed against my abdomen with my right hand. Then after they made up portions for themselves and Morisawa-sensei, they brought out a smaller tray and dishes set, the size the first graders use, and scraped out the dregs of each pot to prepare a miniature portion, which I took with my left hand.  I turned to where my friends Kenta and Yuuji had pushed their desks together and brought Hanako’s and my chairs over from my desk, when Hanako said, “Actually, Takeshi-kun, I was going to have lunch with Hikari-chan today.”  Hanako’s range while haunting me wasn’t far enough to reach  from Kenta and Yuuji’s desks to the group of desks where Hikari and her other friends were eating. “Sorry, guys, it’s just for one day,” I said, and maneuvered around the desks where my classmates were already eating to reach Hikari’s makeshift table, where she and her friends Rika and Naoko had started eating and hadn’t left a space. “Here, it’s Hanako’s,” I said, and they looked at each other and shifted a little to make room. I put her tray down, then took my own in both hands and put it on my own desk.  For their part, Kenta and Yuuji had sprung into action. Kenta brought my and Hanako’s chairs back and put hers in the spot at Hikari’s table and mine at my own desk. While Hanako took her seat, Yuuji negotiated a temporary desk trade with the student in front of me. Then both of them went back for their food and one more chair, until we had arranged the three of us at two desks with me back to back with Hanako.  The problem with Hanako not sitting with me was that I had only seen what was about to happen from afar. I twisted my seat a bit to try to get a good angle to watch as Hanako reached out to pick up the chopsticks on her tray. Of course the chopsticks remained on the tray afterwards, because they’re physical and she’s not, but now she was holding in her hands a ghostly set of chopsticks, which she positioned in her fingers, then used to reach into the rice bowl. When she pulled them out, all the rice was still in the bowl, but there was a clump of ghostly rice pinched between the ghostly chopsticks, and she put it in her ghostly mouth, and made yummy noises as she chewed it.  I had been on Lunch Duty the first week of the school year, and the food and nutrition teacher had explained what Hanako’s fourth grade class had discovered. They felt awkward about eating in front of her and her just watching them, so one time they scrounged together a little bit from everyone’s plate just so she’d have something in front of her, and to their surprise she was actually able to eat it, sort of. Every day after that they put a little extra in the pots for her class so they could give her a place setting. They didn’t give her a full portion because they didn’t want it to go to waste, although if it made her happy then it wasn’t a waste even if it was thrown in the garbage after. The most important thing, though, was she had to have her own serving, and after she “ate” it, nobody else could actually eat it. Someone tried sneaking the food off her plate once and Hanako reported feeling weird the rest of the day, which was significant for a ghost who you wouldn’t expect to feel anything.  We ate our lunches between bursts of typical fifth grade conversation: what happened in an anime we all watched, or movies we were looking forward to. I was pleased that Kenta and Yuuji didn’t seem put off by my wearing a diaper, and would have been willing to include Hanako at our table. They had both had Hanako Duty the first week of class while I was on Lunch Duty, so we hadn’t formed our clique until after they were done with their first round. I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t know that I would have treated them the same if their turns had been later, considering how unhappy I had been at my own selection that morning. I was worried that wearing a diaper would make me feel like a baby, but the diaper didn’t have a babyish design, the elastic waistband meant it felt pretty much like underwear, and Hanako making me use it right away meant I wasn’t so self conscious about using it later. Plus, wearing it meant I got to sit with one of the smartest kids in class, which was the least babyish thing you can think of.  And then, as we stacked our empty bowls and trays in the middle of the desk, I felt an urge. I looked over to Hanako, whose tray had as much food as ever, but she seemed to be done “eating” from it as she was listening in on the conversation between Hikari and her clique. I couldn’t tap her on the shoulder to get her attention, so I leaned in and whispered in her ear, “I need to talk to you in the hallway.”  “We’re still talking. Can’t it wait until the chore period?” she asked. Probably by her own rules, it couldn’t, but rather than try to convince her of that, I excused myself to Kenta and Yuuji and started walking toward the classroom door. When I reached her haunting range limit she was dragged through her seat, and she hovered over everyone’s heads to avoid phasing through them until she could reorient herself and stomp after me. I assume she was stomping, anyways, since I was facing away from her, but I’m sure I heard the noise, which she must have made specifically so I’d know she was upset. I opened the classroom door, exited into the hall, and held it open while she joined me before closing it. “What’s so important that you can’t wait a few minutes?” she asked angrily.  “I have to poop and I didn’t want to do it in the classroom,” I replied.   Her expression turned sheepish. “You could have just said that.”  “I didn’t want to say it in class either.”  “Do you think nobody else in class pooped while they had Hanako Duty?”  “They didn’t poop in the classroom.”  “Didn’t, or you didn’t notice?”  I didn’t really feel like embarrassing anyone by asking her who, if anyone, had done it, since I wouldn’t want her to tell anyone what I was about to do, so I dropped that and concentrated on what I needed to do, in a place I was quite unaccustomed to doing it. “There’s no way I could poop in the toilet where you’d still be able to haunt me because you know I’d still wet the diaper, is there?” I asked.  “One of my fourth grade classmates had that idea. He didn’t ask first, though. He just walked into the boys’ washroom and I got dragged in behind him. And it hurt, like I knew down to my soul that I shouldn’t be in there. What pain is must be one of those things I learned when I was alive without remembering how I learned it, but I had never felt it as a ghost until that moment. It was agony, and I cried, and when I realized what he was doing I begged him not to use the toilet, because if he did I didn’t think I’d be able to haunt him anymore, which meant I’d be stuck in the boys’ washroom in constant pain until someone else rescued me, if someone else ever rescued me. ‘Please don’t strand me here like this,’ I said, over and over.” Her eyes were starting to water.  “What did he do?”  “He didn’t use the toilet, but I think afterward he told other kids what happened, because the next day was the first time someone faked being sick to get out of Hanako Duty.”  That settled things. I tried to decide how I should stand to make what I was doing less obvious when I had a worrying thought. “Going into the boys’ change room didn’t hurt like that, did it?”  “I kept my eyes closed,” she replied. “I would have told you,” she added.  Relieved, I decided that while my first thought had been to have my back toward the wall, the seat of my diaper would be hidden by my trousers, so I faced the wall so nobody passing by would see my expression. Then I immediately adopted a crouch that made it not matter because someone would definitely know what I was doing from the pose. I felt my poop get close to coming out, then my toilet training kicked in and tried to hold it back, but I kept pushing, confident that I was wearing a diaper, this is what it was for, and I had to do this for Hanako, and I was able to overcome my training and get the poop to emerge, where it quickly reached the liner of the diaper, pushing it out slightly, but mostly spreading forward and back, forming a sticky, slimy wedge that held my buttocks apart. Of course some pee came out at the same time, but the diaper had enough absorbency left to contain that, and the leg elastics kept the solid waste in place. I gave a last push to make sure everything was out of me, then stood up straight and came to a conclusion.  I hated this. This felt really awful. It made sense that babies cried when they did this. When I was upset at getting picked for Hanako Duty that morning, I had worried about the emotional and social aspects of wearing a diaper because I had falsely assumed that I wouldn’t need to use it, and when Hanako insisted that I do, it was only pee, which I could barely feel, so I didn’t think about this at all. If I had, I would have been even more upset. I completely understood why people pretended to be sick to get out of Hanako Duty. I looked toward Hanako, expecting her to be smiling at me because at least I had done the thing I needed to do to let her stay in class, as though that would make it better, but she was blushing and distracted, fussing with the back of her skirt. Well, whatever. The only good thing I could say about this was that I was finished, which meant I could change—  “Oh shoot,” I said, “I left the extra diaper in the bag at my desk.”

Evelyn seeing her daughter's fidgeting quickly realized that she needed her pacifier, she ever carried Valeria over to the crib grabbed her pacifier and gave to her as well as her stuffed Pooh bear toyas well, "Don't worry this pain won't last long." --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (Doing a Time skip year.) Morning came as Evelyn got out of bed and stretched after she went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth she headed into the nursery her daughter was already awake, as she squirmed in her toddler size butterfly cardi pouch, "good morning sweetie," Evelyn said as she lowered the crib bars, it had been almost two weeks since her teeth operation and her daughter's mouth had healed completely and the stitches almost dissolved still a few loose strands here and there, with those two could just be simply pulled out naturally. Evelyn looked at butterfly cardi pouch her little girl wore, it had been had been a good idea to get that as during those first couple of days after the surgery it kept her little girl's hands out of her mouth. Evelyn then unzipped the pouch and saw the little girl's full diaper, "I can see why someone looks a bit cranky." She said carrying her princess over to the changing table.

Here's the next chapter.   Day 2 - Samedi / Saturday - Premier Jour The house was quiet. Thomas sat up in bed, his pajama top slightly twisted from sleep and his legs tangled in unicorn-print sheets. The faint scent of lavender fabric softener still clung to the bedding, and as he moved to untangle himself, the faint crinkle beneath him reminded him—again—of where he was, and of what lay beneath. France. Host family. Chloé’s old room. He sat up slowly, blinking at the soft light. His pajamas were a little wrinkled. His stomach rumbled faintly.  He reached down and brushed the edge of the mattress with his fingertips. The waterproof sheet was invisible under the fitted cover, but unmistakable if you listened for it. He got dressed quickly — a fresh t-shirt, comfortable shorts — and padded down the stairs barefoot. Downstairs, the kitchen was already busy. Maman stood at the stove, arranging slices of buttered bread into a pan with practiced rhythm, humming something low and sweet. Papa was nowhere to be seen — his coat was gone from the hook. Chloé leaned against the counter, half-awake, fingers tapping silently at her phone. When Maman turned and saw him, her smile lit up her face. She greeted him slowly, clearly. “Bonjour, mon grand ! Tu as bien dormi ?” (Good morning, my big boy! Did you sleep well?) As she spoke, she tilted her head and drew a sleepy little gesture by her cheek with one hand — mimicking the classic bedtime “head-on-pillow” motion — in case the words hadn’t landed. Thomas nodded, blinking. “Euh… oui. Dodo… euh… bon.” (Uh… yes. Sleep… uh… good.) His sentence wasn’t quite French. But it was enough. Chloé smirked behind her mug. Claire stepped closer and handed him a warm cup. “Tiens. Lait chaud.” (Here. Warm milk.) Then she tapped her own forehead and added, more slowly: “Aujourd’hui, on va essayer… français seulement.” (Today, we’ll try… French only.) She pointed to her mouth, then made a soft zipper gesture — and winked. Thomas nodded, biting the inside of his cheek, then lifted the cup with both hands and sipped. The milk was sweet and mild, and for a second, everything felt calm. Thomas nodded slowly. “Okay. Oui.” “Très bien !” (Very good!) After breakfast, he noticed, that Papa hadn’t returned. Claire caught his glance. “Papa est en déplacement. Il travaille loin cette semaine.” (Papa is traveling. He’s working far away this week.) She didn’t linger on it, and neither did Chloé, who just rolled her eyes and mumbled something about "toujours parti." Thomas got the gist — Papa was around, but not often. Thomas lingered awkwardly until Chloé appeared at his side with a mischievous smile. “Tu veux jouer avec moi?” (You want to play with me?) “Uh… play?” Élodie held up a colorful board game box and nodded. “Un jeu de société. C’est amusant.” (A board game. It's fun.) The box had lots of arrows and what looked like knights and castles, but once they began, Thomas was lost. The rules were fast, the instructions all in French. Chloé explained once, then again — more slowly — but still entirely in French. Her grin only grew as he failed to keep up. “Non, non, tu ne peux pas faire ça — ce n’est pas ton tour !” (No, no, you can’t do that — it’s not your turn!) He gave her a helpless shrug. After a few more confused rounds, Chloé sighed dramatically. “Il ne comprend rien… On prend un jeu plus simple.” (He understands nothing… Let’s take a simpler game.) She disappeared and returned with a memory game — bright square cards with pictures of animals, objects, food. Designed for toddlers. “Celui-ci est pour les petits enfants.” (This one is for little kids.) Thomas reddened, but said nothing. Anything was better than total confusion. They laid out the cards, and Chloé exaggerated every card flip with big eyes and silly sounds, drawing out the names in sing-song French. “Ohhh, regarde ! Une vache ! Tu peux dire ‘vache’, Thomas ?” (Ohhh, look! A cow! Can you say ‘vache’, Thomas?) He hesitated. “Vash?” “Presque.” Chloé smiled. (Almost.) They kept going. He got better with each turn, slowly repeating words as they encouraged him. “Soleil !” (Sun!) “Cheval !” (Horse!) “Porte !” (Door!) Chloé would lean in every time and tilt her head like she was talking to a toddler. “Et ça, c’est quoi ? Tu sais, mon petit ?” (And this, what’s that? Do you know, little one?) Thomas gritted his teeth at the tone — but found himself smiling anyway when he got a word right. There was something satisfying about hearing Chloe clap softly when he matched two cards. Maman snapped pictures from the doorway. “C’est parfait ! Sa maman sera très contente de voir ça.” (This is perfect! His mother will be so happy to see this.) He didn’t catch every word, but he did catch maman and contente. His stomach fluttered. That afternoon, they visited the local château — a stone castle on a hill just outside the village, surrounded by gardens and green fields. The sun was warm, and Thomas walked beside Claire (maman) as they headed toward the gates. To his surprise, Lena appeared near the ticket booth with another family. “Thomas!” she called with a wave. He smiled — truly, for the first time all day — and jogged over. “Hey. Wow. I didn’t know you were coming here.” “My host family’s friends with yours, apparently. This was all planned,” she said with a laugh. “Thank god. Someone I can speak English with.” But before she could answer, one of the adults behind them — her host mom? — gave a sharp look and said something fast in French. Lena winced, then leaned close. “We’re supposed to try French only, remember?” Thomas nodded. “Right. Of course.” Still, it felt nice just hearing someone from home. The group walked together through the gates, and soon the families merged — Maman chatting with Lena’s host mom and Lena, laughing as they pointed out sculptures and antique furnishings. Chloé trailed behind them, then dropped back to Thomas’s side with a wicked grin. “Tu te souviens de ça ?” (Do you remember this?) She pointed to a window in a stone tower. “Fenêtre. Tu te rappelles ?” (Window. Remember?) Thomas hesitated. “Fen...être?” “Très bien !” she said — then in a childish singsong: “Et ça ? Et ça, mon petit ?” She gestured at random things — the door (porte), a flag (drapeau), the knight statue (chevalier). She used the same baby voice she’d used during the memory game. Thomas flushed but played along. Every time he guessed wrong, she shook her head with a tsk. When he got it right, she clapped like a teacher with a kindergartner. Lena watched this and hid a smirk. She joined in, gently correcting his mistakes — but once or twice, she copied Chloé’s tone just to tease him. “Non, non, petit Thomas,” she giggled. “C’est le soleil, pas la lune !” (No, no, little Thomas — it’s the sun, not the moon!) He wanted to be annoyed. But… it was kind of funny. Dinner that night was roasted chicken with herbs and potatoes baked in cream. It was incredible. Thomas barely looked up between bites. He drank two full glasses of water without thinking, then a third with dessert. Maman beamed at how much he enjoyed it. “C’est bien. Tu manges comme un grand garçon !” (Good. You eat like a big boy!) The compliment made him blink — not because of the words, but the tone. That same gentle sing-song again. Like she was praising a toddler. But he was too full, too sleepy to care. 📱 WhatsApp - Thomas & Mum Mum: How’s everything going, sweetheart? Thomas: Good. 😊 Long day. We went to a castle. Food’s great. Mum: Are you settling in okay? Sleeping alright? Thomas: Yeah. Bed’s comfy. A bit weird but fine. I’ve got my bear 😅 Mum: Haha. I thought you might need it. You remembered to be careful about laundry stuff? Thomas: Yep. All clean here. Don’t worry. Mum: Good boy ❤️ Love you. Thomas: Love you too.   After dinner, they all gathered in the living room. The television was already showing the opening credits of a French-dubbed animated movie. Thomas didn’t know the title, but the music was pretty. He curled up at the end of the couch with a blanket. The words meant little, the voices soothing. Chloé sat nearby, feet up on a pillow, while maman knitted something in the corner. Maman sat beside Thomas, patting his shoulder gently every time his eyes began to close. By the time the movie reached its midpoint, he was already nodding off. “Allez, au lit, mon petit. Tu as besoin de repos.” (Come on, little one. You need your rest.) Thomas mumbled something as he was helped up. He didn’t notice how Maman guided him upstairs, or how she checked that the bed was smooth and the window cracked just enough. He didn’t feel her place the bear next to his pillow or murmur bonne nuit as she pulled the covers up to his chest. He only knew, in the fuzzy corner of his brain, that he was warm. Full. Safe. And very, very tired. 📧 Email to Thomas’s Mom — with Photo Attachment From: Claire Lefevre To: Mrs. Helen Wright Subject: Petit moment de la journée 📸 Bonsoir, Today was a beautiful day — we visited the château near the village and Thomas did wonderfully. A bit overwhelmed by the vocabulary, but he stayed cheerful and participated in everything. He even joined a simple card game with Chloé this morning and tried to name animals in French. Very sweet. I’m attaching a photo. He’s sleeping now. I think the new language, the food, and the sunshine wore him out completely. Warmly, Claire (Maman) From: Helen Wright To: Claire Lefevre Subject: RE: Petit moment de samedi 📸 Dear Claire, Thank you so much for the update — and for the photo! That really made me smile. He looks so relaxed. I can tell he’s in good hands. Please tell him I said I’m proud of him — and I hope the French words are starting to stick. Thank you again for everything. —Helen Late Evening Laundry As the end credits rolled and the living room lights dimmed, Maman gently encouraged everyone to head upstairs. Thomas had already been tucked into bed. The plush bear rested on his pillow. His soft breathing was steady. Downstairs, Maman moved quietly through the house. She gathered a few stray cups and folded a blanket left on the armrest, then stepped into the hallway by the stairs where the laundry hamper sat under a narrow table. She lifted the lid and pulled out the bundle of clothes Thomas had dropped in earlier. Two sets of underwear were nestled in with the rest — yesterday’s, and today’s. She sorted through them methodically, unfolding the briefs from the day of arrival. A slight frown crept over her face. The fabric was dry, but there was no mistaking the faint outline of an old stain. A darker patch where the cotton had dried stiff. She held it delicately, examined it for a moment, then said softly to herself: “Ah… peut-être un peu trop stressé.” (Ah… maybe a little too stressed.) She didn’t say it with judgment — only quiet recognition. She set the pair aside and checked the second one. This one was clean. Perfectly so. “Bon. C’est déjà mieux.” (Good. That’s already better.) She folded both and dropped them into the wash with the rest of the clothes. The hum of the machine started a few minutes later, low and soothing. Tomorrow, she thought, would be a new day.  And if he wasn’t ready… well, there were ways to help with that.