Williams Kingdom

[oadbl]

Introduction

 

William (or Will for short) Williams, 45, is a man who stumbled into the world of marketing and found himself running his own marketing firm, though he never planned on it. Despite his success, he now spends his days as a stay-at-home dad, leaving behind the once-bustling business world. Though he’s content with his role at home, it’s clear that the shift hasn’t been without its emotional and personal challenges.

Peggy, 47, is a force to be reckoned with—driven, accomplished, and highly intelligent. With a J.D. and an MBA, she had the tools to conquer the corporate world, but it wasn’t until Will nearly lost the family business a decade ago that she stepped in to save it. Today, she is the driving force behind one of the city’s largest and most successful companies, managing a global customer base. Her ability to balance both her career and her family is admirable, but it's also clear that the sacrifices she’s made have impacted the dynamics at home.

For Zoey, 18, the family structure has always been a little different than what her friends might experience. As a high school senior, Zoey has long known that her mom is the one in charge—both at home and in the business world. Zoey vaguely remembers the time when things began to change: her dad moved out of the master bedroom, and her brother, Max, was getting potty trained. Her mom, Peggy, in an attempt to maintain some semblance of order, told Zoey that when she’s busy, Zoey would be in charge—not Tim. This moment, though subtle at the time, marked the beginning of a shift that Zoey would carry with her into adulthood.

This was already a decade ago and her Mom was going on another business trip, this time to Tokyo.

 

A Typical Tuesday

The morning began with Peggy issuing marching orders from the kitchen like a four-star general.

"Zoey, make sure your brother finishes his homework before his Minecraft marathon starts “Will, the recycling hasn't moved since last Thursday. Move it before I demote you to worm-wrangler in the garden."

“Yes, ma’am,” Will muttered, saluting with a banana peel before hustling outside in his slippers. Zoey peered over her cereal bowl, eyebrow arched.

“Dad, if you want to gain rank, I suggest fewer dad jokes and more action. Mom’s starting to think Alexa is more helpful.”

Will looked wounded. “Alexa doesn’t know how to grill burgers.”

“She also doesn’t lock the keys in the car twice in one week,” Zoey said without missing a beat.

 

The Twist

Despite his position on the bottom rung, Will wouldn’t trade it for the world. He loved being part of this upside-down empire. His family functioned like a well-oiled machine — even if he was mostly the oil, occasionally leaking all over the carpet.

And every so often, when Peggy was stressed and Zoey had teen drama to navigate, Tim’s quiet strength, dad jokes, and emergency chocolate stash made him the unsung hero of the Carter Kingdom.

Because being last in the pecking order doesn’t mean being the least important. Sometimes, it just means you’re the foundation everything stands on.

Peggy leaned against the counter, her eyes scanning the kitchen as she mentally ran through her checklist for the day. She had to be quick—another business trip meant more responsibilities waiting at the airport.

“Alright, everyone, listen up.” She was starting to feel that familiar tension of being pulled in multiple directions. The to-do list in her mind seemed endless, but her family needed the usual reminders before she could escape. “I’m leaving for the airport today for a few days, so let’s get a few things straight.”

Her eyes landed on Will first, who was still fiddling with a piece of toast, looking only half aware of the situation. “Zoey’s in charge. As always. She’s the one running the show while I’m gone. Got it, Tim?”

Will just nodded, trying to look serious but failing miserably. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Zoey, you get the master bedroom this time. I’m not taking the risk of coming back and finding that disaster zone.” Peggy tossed a glance at the living room, where the mess was already piling up.

“Which means, Will, you’ll be moving to the guest room. We’ve been over this. No complaints. I’m serious. The couch has no place for a grown man when there’s a perfectly good guest bed available.”

Will gave a mock salute. “Aye, captain.”

“And,” Peggy added, crossing her arms, “there’s one more thing. Zoey’s officially 18 now, so we’re all on the same page about this: Zoey decides what you eat. No more asking her opinion on what you want for dinner. She’s the adult now, and you’re the one who’s cooking, got it?”

Zoey shot her mom a look of amusement. “Thanks for the trust, Mom."

Peggy didn’t miss a beat. “You’re in charge, Zoey. And that means you make the calls. But that doesn’t mean you get to go easy on your dad. I trust you’ll keep him in line.”

Zoey leaned back, looking as calm as ever. “No promises. He’s a lost cause.”

“Well, you’ll be the one left cleaning up the mess, not me,” Peggy said, knowing full well she was leaving her daughter to pick up all the slack. But there was a part of her that couldn’t help but feel pride. Zoey was stepping into her role, growing up faster than Peggy ever expected.

“Alright,” she said, taking one last glance at her family. “I’m off. Don’t make me regret this.”

 

Regime Change

When Peggy Carter boarded her flight to Tokyo, she left behind the usual thorough itinerary. But tucked behind the meal plan and emergency contacts was a second page, handwritten, and marked simply: For Zoey’s eye’s only.

Rules for Zoey

1. Enforce bedtime for Will (8:00 PM sharp). No excuses. If he argues, remind him that even Dad needs his beauty sleep.
    
2. No couch naps unless chores are done. Actually, no couch at all!  If Will wants to sit, he can sit on the floor. Let him know that the couch is a privilege, not a right.
    
3. Confiscate his remote. You’re in charge of TV privileges. He’s not. And remove the TV from the guest room. If he wants to watch something, he’ll have to earn it. Bonus points for taking it one step further and hiding the remote entirely.
    
4. Max can have soda. Will cannot. 
    
5. You may demote Dad’s snack privileges. If he sneaks in one too many of your snacks, take a stand. Make him earn them with a chore. Bonus points for creative snack rationing. 
    
6. If he calls you “kiddo” while trying to dodge a rule — add a new rule. Immediately! No hesitation. Make it stick.
    
7. Car Rule - You drive. He sits in the back. If he pouts, turn on Zoey’s Playlist and sing all the words, loud and proud! Make sure it’s the entire drive. Extra points for harmonizing.
    
8. Dinner Decision Making: Zoey’s the one in charge of meals now. She decides what’s for dinner, and Will has no say, though he must cook it.
    
9. No Whining: Will cannot complain or there will be consequences  
    
10. New Rules... Zoey may add rules as she sees fit.
     
11. Now, most importantly, if I come back jet-lagged and cranky you have my permission to put me in timeout for the night. No phone. Just a blanket and tea. Enforce this rule without mercy.

The household binder was off-limits to Will—strictly reserved for the adult in charge. And now that Zoey was officially 18, that adult was her.

 

 

 

[oadbl]

Afternoon / Evening

Zoey walked in after cheer practice, the familiar smell of McDonald's trailing behind her. This time, however, she wasn’t alone.

“Dad! We’re back!” she called out as the front door clicked shut behind her. “And I brought dinner.”
 

Trailing behind her was Eliza—tall, sharp-eyed, and already scanning the chaotic living room like a seasoned war correspondent. She carried two drinks and wore a hoodie that read Don’t Start With Me, You Won’t Win.

Will popped his head out from the kitchen, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. “Hey, Kiddo! You didn’t say anyone was coming over.”

He was aimlessly rearranging the mail stack on the entry table, but suddenly his eyes landed on the food bag. “Wait—McDonald’s?! I made a real dinner. I made soup…”

Zoey (handing Eliza her drink): “Rule Three. I choose what he eats. He cooks, I decide. He gets the Happy Meal. It’s portion-controlled. Age-appropriate.”

Will slumped onto the couch with his Happy Meal, clearly frustrated. Zoey raised an eyebrow, watching him settle in.

Zoey (casually, to Eliza): “Rule Four—couch is a privilege, not a right. He just broke it again. He didn’t wait for my permission to sit down.”

Will blinked, confused. “Wait—am I being judged right now?”
Zoey (with a smirk): “You’re being monitored.”

She pulled out a pen and scribbled on the back of the Happy Meal box:
New Rule #13: No self-declared authority during tantrums.

Zoey (to Eliza): “Rule Three—I decide what he eats. Rule Four—couch privilege revoked. And now he’s already in trouble for muttering—Rule Eight, remember that one?”

Will blinked. “I’m venting!”

Zoey (sharply): “Nope. Muttering. Rule Eight. Timeout.”

Will opened his mouth to protest, but Eliza leaned forward, intrigued.

Eliza (curiously): “Wait. Is timeout... real?”
 

Zoey (nodding): “Oh yeah. Standard procedure. Corner. Five minutes.”
 

Will stared at her like she had just told him Santa was real again. “You’re kidding.”
 

Zoey (stone-faced): “Now.”

Will slouched to the corner, his face practically kissing the wall, a penny precariously balanced between the bridge of his nose and the paint.
 

Zoey (explaining to Eliza, casually): “Rule Eleven. No muttering during timeout. If you want to test it, wait until you’re in the corner and have a conversation with yourself. It’s automatic.”

Eliza (genuinely impressed): “This is like a minimum-security prison with better branding.”

Zoey (laughing): “This is the upgraded version. He broke three rules in under five minutes.”

Max (helpfully from the other end of the couch): “If the penny falls, he gets five more minutes.”
 

Will groaned, holding as still as possible, but the penny wobbled slightly every time he exhaled.
 

“You know I have a deviated septum, right?” he pleaded, his voice muffled from the penny’s pressure.
 

Zoey (unmoved): “Then hold it better.”

Two minutes later, the inevitable happened—clink—the penny hit the hardwood floor.

Zoey (without skipping a beat, to Eliza): “Rule Eleven, broken. He gets five more minutes.”
 

Will exhaled deeply, resigned to his fate. By the time the penny dropped for the third time—and Zoey had calmly tacked on five more minutes like she was managing a parole board—Will was a shell of a man.

Zoey (sitting back, smug): “This is what happens when you break rules in quick succession. I’ve got this whole system, Eliza.”

Eliza (smirking): “This is insane. And kind of genius.”

20 minutes later, after everyone finished eating Zoey excused her dad from the corner. 

Will slouched at the living coffee table now, cheeks red, posture sagging, and dignity fully in tatters. Zoey placed his dinner in front of him with all the ceremony of someone presenting a gourmet meal, only to take a bottle of ketchup and drown the french fries in them.

A sad, soggy Happy Meal®, clearly cold from the wait, with a disproportionate amount of ketchup.

Zoey (to Eliza, explaining in a tone of mild amusement): “He’s breaking Rule Two—no complaints allowed—but that’s going to be a problem because I’m watching.”

Will’s eyes narrowed, but he was too defeated to argue. He picked up a limp nugget, and the cold rubbery texture made him gag slightly.

Zoey (casually, as though it’s second nature): “Did you see that? Rule Two. Complaints.”

Eliza grinned, snapping a picture of Will trying to eat the cold nugget.

Eliza (laughing): “You look like a preschooler during snack time.”

Will sighed deeply. “Wonderful.”

Zoey (nodding): “And now, Rule Five—only appropriate utensils during meals. Do you see any, Will?”

Will hesitated, realizing what she meant. 

Zoey (smirking): “Not with that attitude.”

Will tried to complain, knowing full well it could end up in another timeout. 

Instead, Zoey said “it’s getting late, and your food is already cold, why doesn’t Eliza feed you dinner.” 

Will hesitated, but Eliza already took the try and motioned for him to seat between her legs.
 

Eliza (playfully): “Say ‘ahhh,’” she sang sweetly.

Will let out a deep sigh but gave in, swallowing the cold, ketchup-laden nugget.

As Eliza dipped another nugget (or nuggys as she referred to them now), Zoey noticed Will’s thumb crawling towards his mouth. As she swapped his hand away from his mouth - “No, big boys don’t suck their thumb, and you’re a big boy. Right?” 

Zoey leaned back on the couch, arms crossed, barely containing her grin as Eliza fed Will another nugget. The scene was unfolding just as she’d predicted.
Zoey (to Eliza, casually): “And here’s the thing—this is just dinner. We haven’t even gotten to the bedtime routine yet. Rule Number One: Be in bed by 8:00 p.m. and Will... well, let’s just say he’s been testing that one for years.”
Will, now thoroughly humiliated and still chewing through his soggy meal, shot Zoey a look of pure misery.
Will (through gritted teeth): “You’re really enjoying this.”
Zoey (smirking): “Rule Two: No complaining when it’s bedtime. Get ready.”

Will rolled his eyes, but he knew better than to push it further. Bedtime was sacred, and Zoey had made it very clear that Rule One was the only rule that actually mattered.

Will (grumbling): “This is beyond ridiculous.”

Zoey (grinning): “Yeah, well. It’s your own fault for breaking Rule Thirty-Three: Eat your meal without excessive drama.”

Eliza, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, held up the last nugget like it was some sort of victory trophy.

Will opened his mouth slowly, knowing he had no other choice. The final bite was the worst of all—cold, over-saturated in ketchup, and the tragic symbol of everything he had failed to prevent. 

As the nugget made its way into his mouth, Eliza gave him an exaggerated round of applause.
 

Eliza (mocking): “Good job, Will! You ate all your food.”

Zoey leaned back, satisfied with the level of complete and utter submission Will had reached.
 

Zoey (leaning in to Eliza, still watching Will): “So, you get the gist. He’s in violation of so many rules it’s like watching him walk into a minefield. Each step—each mistake—just makes it worse.”

Eliza gave a knowing nod as Will struggled to swallow the final bite.
Eliza (to Zoey, impressed): “He’s pretty much going through a rule apocalypse right now.”

Will grumbled under his breath, wiping his hands on his shirt in frustration.

Eliza (noticing immediately): “Hey, hey, no—don’t do that!” She swapped his hands away with a gentle, but firm touch, her eyes softening with mock maternal care. “You're making it worse!” She took a wet napkin and started cleaning his hands for him.

Zoey, casually watching the scene unfold, reached over, grabbed the chocolate milk, and handed it to Will with a straw.

Zoey (mockingly sweet): “Here, Daddy. Drink this. Using both hands, though. We don’t want any spilling on the nice rug. Do we?”

Will stared at her, still nursing his wounded pride, but did as he was told, gripping the carton awkwardly with both hands, like a child being fed their milk for the first time.

Zoey (watching him closely, her voice smooth and calculated): “That’s right, you’re doing it! No spilling.”

Will took a deep, slow sip, determined to do it without any more disasters. But the moment the straw hit the milk, he misjudged it completely. The milk dribbled down the side of the carton, splashing across his chin, then down to his shirt. He froze for a second, horrified by the mess he had just created.

Eliza (giggling, but in a very ‘toddler’s having a snack’ way): “Oh no, you really went for it, huh?”

Will (glaring at her, voice low): “This is so not fair.”

Zoey (unfazed): “Rule Forty-Four: No complaining during meals, either.”

Will sighed dramatically and wiped his milk-streaked chin with his shirt; his shirt had absorbed half of the milk too, leaving a damp, sticky patch.

Eliza (laughing): “This is going on the internet. You are going viral.”

Zoey (turning to Eliza, grinning): “Looks like we’re going to need some wipes. He’s a toddler in every sense of the word. Milk on his shirt, ketchup on his face… it’s like he’s still learning to feed himself.”

Eliza (smirking, amused): “I swear, if you told me this was a highchair moment, I’d believe it. This is prime toddler content.”

Will (muttering under his breath): “I’m not a kid, okay? I can clean myself up.”

Zoey (deadpan, ignoring him): “Rule Seventeen: No cleaning yourself up unless given explicit permission.”

Will didn’t even get a chance to protest before Eliza grabbed a handful of wet wipes and started dabbing at his shirt and face. It was almost like she was treating him like a little child, wiping his chin as if he were a baby that had just spit up.

Eliza (giving instructions): (looking at Zoey, playfully): “I’ve got a new rule for him.” She pointed to Will, still trying to salvage some dignity, and smirked. “Rule Forty-Five: Suck your thumb and put the other hand in the air; as we clean you up.”

Eliza (teasing): “Aww, look at you. Just like a baby. Let’s make sure we get all the ketchup, huh?”

The wipes were thorough, getting every inch of his face and hands. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective. Once he was cleaned up, Zoey gave him a cold, hard look. She pulled his thumb out of his mouth with a deliberate motion, and before Will could protest, she took a wipe and gently, but firmly, cleaned every finger.

She carefully wiped off the last of the ketchup, then, as if nothing had happened, put his thumb back into his mouth with a quiet click.

Will froze for a moment, his face scrunching in confusion and disgust. The taste had changed – the endless taste of ketchup was now mixed with what felt like soap. As he looked up he noticed thaat Zoey had whipped him down using (soapy) baby wipes. His eyes widened in realization, and his mouth twitched as the unpleasant aftertaste lingered.

Will (groaning, his voice muffled around his thumb): “What... did you just...?”

Zoey (smiling): “Timeout. You’ve been complaining and whining through dinner. I think it’s time for a little time out.”

Will didn’t argue. At this point, he knew better. He trudged to the corner, dragged himself there slowly, and planted his face against the wall. He was still wearing that defeated look—thumb firmly in his mouth, hand still held in the air. Unlike the previous time, having his thumb in his mouth made the idea of holding the coin with his nose nearly impossible. 

Zoey (glancing at her watch): “Look at the time, it’s just past 9. Over an hour after your bedtime. That means no bath. No brushing your teeth. You broke Rule One. We don’t have time for anything else. Bedtime is now.”

Will turned slowly to face her. His eyes were wide. “Wait, but—”

Zoey crossed her arms, watching Will's exhausted slump. "You’re not walking to bed, Daddy," she said, tone firm but almost playful. "You crawled into this mess, and now you're going to crawl out. Rule Six: Actions have consequences."

Will’s eyes widened at the reminder. "Come on kiddo, I’m sure mom was only half kidding when she left you in charge."

Zoey (cutting him off): "Nope. No excuses. Crawl. Two knees. One hand. And you better keep that thumb in your mouth. No breaks."

Will groaned, standing up slowly, like every part of him was deflating at the idea. But he knew better than to argue. He dropped to his knees with a heavy sigh, placing one hand on the floor to steady himself.

Zoey (grinning, watching him): "Oh, and by the way, go to the guest room. Not the master. Remember the rules."

Will (mumbling under his breath): "I’m not a baby…"

Zoey (chuckling): "You’re not? Because the way you’re acting, I’m starting to think otherwise."

Will's shoulders slumped even further as he began his slow, humiliating crawl across the living room floor, thumb securely in his mouth, hand raised like some strange hybrid of a toddler and a prisoner. Eliza, still on the couch, watched in amusement, her phone out to capture the moment for posterity.

Eliza (snickering): "Look at him! You’re practically training him, Zoey."

Zoey (laughing softly): "He’s earned it. The more he misbehaves, the more he learns."

The crawl to the guest room was agonizing for Will. Every movement felt like a reminder of his lost autonomy, the rules weighing down on him with each drag of his knee against the floor. The thumb in his mouth, however, didn’t leave—it was as much a part of the punishment as anything.

Will’s heart skipped as he saw the key in her hand. Zoey (smiling, before turning the key): “I’m locking you in. Consider it... your timeout. You’ve got plenty of time to think about all the rules you’ve broken tonight.”

She turned the lock with a quiet click, sealing him in the room. Will didn’t move for a long moment, staring at the door like it was the last shred of freedom he had left.

Zoey (with the door shut and locked): “Good night daddy, sweet dreams! Oh, and that thumb better be in your mouth when I come and get you in the morning. ”

With that, Zoey walked away, leaving Will locked in the guest room, thumb still in his mouth, the consequences of his actions finally sinking in.
 

As Will fell asleep, he suddenly thought how he hadn’t even looked at a clock all afternoon, in fact he hadn’t looked at a clock all day. Did Zoey just put him to bed at 9pm, or was it earlier?

[oadbl]

Morning

She moved with purpose, checking off her mental list, starting with a march down the hall to Max’s room. Just as she reached it, she heard the unmistakable sound of Will pounding on a door.

"Let me out! Come on, Zoey!"
His voice was desperate, muffled behind the guest room door.

Zoey chuckled. “That thumb better be in your mouth,” she called back.

Max, for his part, was already up and half-dressed, humming to himself like a kid blissfully unaware of the household power struggle.

Returning to the guest room, Zoey unlocked the door. Will burst out like a man on fire, beelining for the bathroom.

Only to find it locked.

He froze, then yanked at the handle, his face a perfect portrait of horror. “No, no, no! Not that one too!”

Zoey leaned against the hallway wall, arms folded, enjoying the scene with a smirk. “Remember our little agreement from last night?”

Will paused mid-potty-dance. His eyes narrowed. He already knew what was coming.

And then, with theatrical resignation, he stuck his thumb in his mouth.

Zoey smiled sweetly. “Good boy.”

With a dramatic spin of the key, she unlocked the bathroom door and stepped inside ahead of him—casually sitting on the closed lid of the toilet like it was a throne.

In the center of the bathroom sat a relic from years ago: a pink plastic potty chair. Slightly faded, slightly crooked, and fully intentional.

Zoey gestured to it with mock seriousness. “Go ahead. Use the potty like a big boy.”

But Will was already too late.

A beat of silence passed before he muttered, “You’re pure evil.”

“Rule number one of leadership,” Zoey replied, “never underestimate a girl who used to rule this household from a plastic potty.”

Breakfast

By the time Zoey came downstairs, the kitchen was already in motion.

Will stood at the stove, flipping pancakes like a seasoned short-order cook. The coffee pot burbled in the background, and Max sat at the table, spooning cereal into his mouth with sleepy efficiency.

“Well, at least the pancakes survived,” Zoey remarked dryly.

But then she saw it—Will reaching for the coffee pot. Her expression darkened instantly.

“Dad!” Her voice cut through the room like a whip. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Will froze mid-pour, the mug hovering just beneath the spout. “I—uh… just getting my coffee…”

“You know the rules,” Zoey said, crossing her arms with the full force of her authority. “No caffeine. You’ve been warned.”

Will gave a sheepish smile. “Right. No caffeine.”

He set the mug down with a sigh as Zoey picked up her own coffee and took a victorious sip, locking eyes with him over the rim.

A few minutes later, the table was set. Max had already devoured half his pancakes, syrup on his cheek. Will was about to dig in when Zoey casually slid his plate out of reach and replaced it with a small bowl of plain Cheerios—no milk, no spoon.

He blinked. “What’s this?”

“Your breakfast,” Zoey replied flatly.

“There’s no spoon.”

“Use your hands.”

Will stared at her. “Seriously?”

Zoey didn’t flinch. “Eat.”

With a reluctant sigh, Will picked up a few Cheerios and popped them into his mouth, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. Zoey sat across from him, arms folded, her gaze sharp and unrelenting.

“Daddy,” she said in a mock-scolding tone, “stop playing with your food.”

Will frowned. “I’m not playing, Zoey. I’m just—”

“No excuses. It’s not even 7:30 and you’ve already broken two rules. Timeout.”

Will groaned and pushed his chair back. Without a word, he shuffled to the corner and stood facing the wall. Max snorted into his pancakes, barely stifling a laugh.

When Will was finally released from his timeout, he returned to the table—only to find his bowl now overflowing with milk and Cheerios. He stared at it like it might explode.

Zoey set it down in front of him and crossed her arms. “Don’t spill it this time.”

Will sighed, sat down carefully, and took a cautious bite. But even with all his effort, disaster struck. The bowl tipped, milk and cereal sloshed all over his lap and shirt.

Zoey groaned with theatrical disappointment. “Unbelievable. I leave you alone for two seconds.”

She refilled the bowl—again—and this time set it down just out of reach. “That’s it. No more chances. I’m feeding you.”

“Zoey—seriously?” Will groaned.

Max was already heading out the door. 

But she was already scooping cereal onto the spoon. “Here comes the airplane,” she sang, sending the spoon veering straight into his cheek.

Milk dribbled down.

Before getting ready to go out, Zoey put a plate of 2 pancakes, drowned in maple syrup. “Eat”. 

When Zoey came back after a few minutes (with her bag slung over her shoulder), to find a fully-grown man, with sticky goo all over his face and hands. 

“Okay. You know the drill.”

Will sighed, placing his thumb in his mouth and raising his other hand in the air like a preschooler waiting for permission to speak.

Zoey wiped him down with practiced efficiency—his chin, his hands, the syrup on his shirt. “There,” she said, tossing the cloth into the sink. “Clean again.”

When she was done, she tossed the cloth in the sink and turned back to him. “Now remember what I want for dinner tonight.”

Will mumbled, “Yeah, yeah. Steak and fries.”

“Frites,” Zoey corrected. “Say it right.”

Will exhaled. “Steak and frites.”

Zoey tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Fries?” she repeated, her voice dropping into full-on preschool teacher mode. “No, no…”

She leaned closer, smiling sweetly.

“Can you say frites, baby?”

Will hesitated, cheeks flushing red.

“Come on,” she coaxed gently, like she was prompting a toddler to learn a new word. “Say frites for Zoey.”

He sighed. “...Frites.”

Zoey beamed and clapped once. “Good job! That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Then she ruffled his hair again and slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’m off to school. Clean up this mess—and don’t forget the steak and frites, or we’ll have another toddler moment tonight.”

Will gave a half-hearted nod as she disappeared out the door, leaving him sitting at the sticky kitchen table, humiliated, syrup-stained, and completely under her thumb.

 

After cleaning up the kitchen, Will trudged to the guest room, already dreading what came next. He knew Zoey had laid out his clothes for the day—just like every morning now—and sure enough, the outfit was waiting neatly folded on the bed.

He changed quickly, muttering under his breath, and just as he tugged on the last sock, a sudden gust from the hallway pushed the door shut behind him with a soft but definitive click.

Will turned the knob.

It didn’t budge.

He tried again, harder this time. Nothing.

Locked. From the outside.

Again.

He sighed and leaned his forehead against the door. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

As his eyes scanned the room, something clicked in his mind—something he hadn’t noticed last night in the haze of bedtime exhaustion. The room… was bare.

The TV? Gone.

The nightstand? Gone.

Even the heavy dresser where the TV used to sit had vanished.

The only thing left was the bed and the clothes on his back.

Will took a slow lap around the room, double-checking. Nope—no hidden remotes, no backup phone chargers, not even a chair. Just four walls, a bed, and silence.

He was completely alone. No phone. No TV. No books. Not even a clock on the wall.

Just him… and seven long hours of reflection.

Will let out a long, resigned sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Steak and frites,” he muttered to himself. “Don’t screw it up.”

Afternoon 

When Zoey and Max arrived home, the house was quiet. Too quiet.
No smell of dinner—no sizzling, no roasting, no faint whiff of anything at all. Just still air and heavy silence.

Zoey’s jaw tightened. She dropped her backpack by the door and scanned the room. “Of course,” she muttered.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Should I start microwaving something now, or...?”

Zoey ignored him, already on the hunt.

“Willy,” she called sweetly, stalking down the hallway. “Wiiillyyy... where are you?”

She rounded the corner and saw it: the guest room door, shut tight.

She didn’t even try the handle. She already knew.

With a slow, practiced sigh, she spun on her heel and headed to her room. From her dresser drawer, she retrieved exactly what she'd set aside for tonight—a single pull-up, folded neatly and waiting.

Back at the guest room, she knocked twice. Firm. Sharp.

“Thumb better be in your mouth,” she said through the door, voice cold and commanding. “Or I will put you in your place.”

A beat of silence.

Then she unlocked the door.

Will pushed forward in a blur of desperation, trying to get past her. “I need the bathroom—”

Zoey blocked him with one arm, completely unfazed. “Put these on.” She held up the pull-up. “And come downstairs for dinner.”

Will stared at her, stunned. “Zoey—no. Absolutely not. I’m not—”

“Put. Them. On.” Her tone left no room for debate.

Will hesitated, dignity already frayed from the morning’s toddler routine. This wasn’t the hill he could die on. He took the pull-up without another word and shuffled toward the bathroom.

As he passed her, Zoey added without looking:
“Oh—and the potty? Locked.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I recommend using those instead.”

Will froze, his pride visibly cracking. “You can’t be serious.”

Zoey turned to face him, folding her arms. “You had one job. One. Dinner.”

“I was locked in!” he snapped, raising his voice.

“And now you’re raising your voice,” Zoey said evenly. “Final warning, Daddy.”

“I have rights!” he blurted.

Wrong move.

Zoey didn’t blink. “Timeout.”

“What? No—”

“Now.”

Max, peeking from the kitchen, winced. “Oof.”

Will groaned but obeyed. Zoey followed him to the corner and gave the full treatment: thumb in mouth, coin between the wall and his nose,  pants off to reveal the pull-up—the whole humiliating ritual.

Dinner

When Will was finally released, Zoey didn’t send him to the table.

“Sit on the floor,” she said flatly, pointing to a spot by the kitchen island. “Thumb in your mouth, hand up—unless you want another timeout.”

Will obeyed with a quiet sigh, settling cross-legged like a scolded preschooler, thumb returning to its now-familiar place. He watched silently as Zoey moved around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, skillet sizzling.

The smell hit him first—steak, perfectly seared, golden fries crisping in the oven.

His stomach growled.

A few minutes later, Zoey set a full plate in front of Max at the table: steak sliced into neat strips, a side of frites, ketchup dolloped just so.

Will remained on the floor.

Zoey turned to him. “Can you act like a big boy and eat with us?” she asked, sweetness purely performative.

Will nodded quickly, eager for a seat—and food.

Zoey gestured toward the table. He climbed into a chair, and before he could settle, she placed his plate in front of him: a few fries and cut-up hot dogs. No steak. No condiments. Bare minimum.

Sliding the chair in behind him, she added under her breath, “Thumb better be in your mouth while you eat.”

Will glanced at her but said nothing. Too tired, too hungry to argue. He stuck his thumb in and picked at the fries with his free hand.

Across the table, Max ate like nothing was unusual. Neither acknowledged Will.

After a few minutes, Max finished, wiped his hands, and stood. “I’m gonna go finish my homework.”

“Good,” Zoey said without looking up. “Let me know if you need anything.”

As Max disappeared upstairs, Zoey turned to the sink and began cleaning up. Plates clattered, water ran. The tension hung thick and quiet.

Will chewed in silence, thumb dipping in and out between bites.

When Zoey returned to the table, she looked at his half-eaten, mostly cold plate—and then at him. A long pause.

She picked up the dish with a smirk.
“Well, I guess you’re done, aren’t you?” she said, voice full of mocking cheer.

Will didn’t respond. He just looked away, cheeks flushed.

Zoey shook her head as she walked back to the sink. “Big boys finish their dinner, Daddy.”

Bath time for Daddy

Zoey called out sharply, “Bath time, Daddy!”

Will blinked, caught off guard. “A shower would be fine...”

Zoey cut him off without missing a beat. “I said bath. And since you’re arguing, why don’t you start crawling unless a grownup holds your hand?”

“But, but, but—”

“No buts. I thought you could give yourself a bath, but now I’m not so sure.”

She led the way to the bathroom and began filling the tub with warm water and bubbles, lavender scent filling the air.

“Get undressed and get in,” Zoey ordered.

Will hesitated. “But... I need to use the bathroom.”

Silence.

“I need to poop...”

More silence.

“Poopy...”

Zoey pointed at the pink potty chair nearby. “Then what are you waiting for? The potty’s right there.”

By the time Will finished, the bath was perfect.

Sliding in, he noticed the water barely reached the tub bottom—more suited for a child than a grown man. He wasn’t sure if it was too cold or too hot.

Zoey sat perched on the toilet lid, eyes sharp as she gave him detailed instructions on washing himself. Then she grabbed the showerhead and sprayed him down, ensuring he was thoroughly rinsed.

When done, Zoey told him to dry off and get dressed. “I expect you downstairs in five minutes.”

She added coldly, “You may crawl to the living room now. And remember, I expect you on the floor, thumb in your mouth, like a good little boy.”

Desert Anyone?

Will sat on the living room floor, thumb sucking, the faint whir of the blender slicing through the silence. His stomach churned with dread—he knew exactly what Zoey was up to, and the thought made his skin crawl.

Zoey appeared with two bowls, deliberately avoiding his eyes. She settled on the couch and set one beside her. Max was already there, spoon in hand, happily eating ice cream while watching Family Guy reruns.

Will shifted, trying to see the TV, but a sharp reminder stopped him—he was far too small, too insignificant to watch these shows.

“What are you eating?” Will asked quietly.

“Ice cream,” Max said, smiling.

“Can I have some?” Will whispered.

Zoey shook her head without looking. “Nope. But you’ll get your treat soon enough.”

When Zoey finished, she picked up the other bowl and called Will over firmly.

Will didn’t resist. He crawled slowly toward her, reluctant, his body surrendering before his mind could protest.

He sat on the floor, hands folded tightly behind his back, utterly restrained. Zoey sat on the couch, legs locked firmly around his sides, ensuring he couldn’t move.

From behind and above, Zoey leaned over him with the spoon, feeding him the mushy, humiliating mix—hotdog, fries, ketchup, and ice sliding cold and sloppy into his mouth.

She made playful airplane noises, “Whoooosh!” as the mess spread over his lips and cheeks.

When the bowl was empty, Zoey gave a quick, dismissive nod, as if it had been a chore. Without a word, she stood and led him upstairs. Will clearly crawling in front of her. 

Bedy Bye

In the dim glow of his bedroom, Will lay tucked beneath the covers, his face still tacky with the remnants of the too-sweet, too-soft dinner Zoey had insisted on.

She stood over him, arms crossed. “Clean-up position.”

Without hesitation, he obeyed—thumb in mouth, the other hand raised in the air like a signal flare.

Zoey pulled a baby wipe from the pack with a gentle snap, wiping his cheeks, chin, and forehead with brisk efficiency. She avoided the thumb—already sealed between his lips, his last, pathetic line of defense.

He lay still, shame swelling in his throat like a swallowed stone.

“Let’s see…” she said, dragging it out, her voice deliberately thoughtful. “Something… soothing. Maybe a classic.”

Will said nothing. He just lay there, thumb in mouth, watching her with quiet dread.

She crouched slightly, pulling out a few titles one at a time and reading them aloud like a librarian humoring a fussy toddler. Where the Wild Things Are… Goodnight Construction Site… Oh! This one’s got dinosaurs! Her tone was playful, lilting, but there was no doubt in either of their minds—she already knew what she’d come for.

“Ah,” she said at last, her fingers settling on a thick cardboard book with a worn spine and brightly colored cover. “Here we go. Goodnight Moon. A classic. Timeless. Comforting.”

She turned and gave him a look that said everything. You knew this was coming.

“Oh, look at the time,” she said brightly. “It’s only 7:20.”

She gave a mock-innocent smile, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I guess that evens out with yesterday’s very generous 9 p.m. bedtime.”

Will’s breath caught. Was she serious? He stared at her, blinking. He was forty-five. People his age were watching Netflix, drinking wine, doom-scrolling on the couch. Not tucked into bed before prime time with applesauce on their chin.

But Zoey had already perched on the edge of the bed and opened the book with ceremony.

“Ready? ” She read slowly, sing-song but mocking:

“Goodnight stars, goodnight moon, goodnight little teddy bear,” she intoned. “Goodnight, sleepy baby… who will sleep in their crib tonight?”

Will sucked harder on his thumb, desperate to drown out the infantilizing words. The story felt wrong—too childish for a man his age—but here he was, trapped.

Page after page, Zoey read on, each line chipping away at his dignity:

“Goodnight little feet, goodnight sleepy eyes,” her voice softened into a lullaby. “Goodnight, baby boy. Goodnight, goodnight.”

By the end, Will’s thumb was buried deep, body limp. Zoey closed the book silently.

“Goodnight, Daddy,” she said with finality.

The door clicked softly shut, leaving Will alone in the dark, thumb still nestled between his lips. The sound of Zoey’s footsteps faded down the hall, swallowed by thick, suffocating silence.

 

[oadbl]

Next Day 

Zoey didn’t wake Will the next morning. When he finally stirred and got up, he found his bedroom door unlocked, the house eerily silent. The absence of his daughter was strange—like a missing piece, something off.

He shuffled downstairs, legs stiff from a night spent in a bed meant for a child. On the kitchen counter, a note was taped in Zoey’s neat, precise handwriting:

Quote

 

Good Morning, Daddy!

Today is a big day! Due to the mess you made the last few days, you have no responsibilities.

I’ve laid out your clothes on the coffee table in the living room, and your food is right in front of you. You must finish all of it before dinner.

You are also required to color 3 (not 2, not 4—3) pictures in the coloring book (your choice).

Extra brownie points if you use your left hand.

Once you’re done, you may watch TV in the living room.

Love,
Zoey

PS I’ll be watching you on the nanny cam. You’re to suck your thumb and crawl 

 

Will blinked slowly, the words sinking in like a lead weight. She’d even signed it with “Love,” as if she were some caring mother.

Before he could process the note fully, his eyes shifted to the coffee table.

There, laid out with infuriating precision, was a bizarre and infantilizing tableau.

Two baby bottles sat side by side—one filled with the soup he’d made days ago, thick and soupy. The other contained the soupy mess from last night’s dinner—hotdog and fries blended into a cold, sickening slush.

Beside them, five sippy cups filled with watered-down apple juice stood neatly in a row, like a sad, regimented breakfast.

Across the room, on the living room floor, lay a bright, overly youthful shirt—far too young for a man of his age—and two pairs of pull-ups.

The entire setup felt deliberate, choreographed, a strict script laid out without a hint of flexibility.

There was no room for choice. No room for dignity. Only orders, bare and impossible to ignore.

Will picked up one of the sippy cups and took a slow sip of the watered-down apple juice as he settled in at the coffee table. The sweetness was faint, almost bland, but it was something to sip on while he painstakingly colored inside—and sometimes just outside—the lines with his left hand. The childish scenes in the book seemed to mock him with their innocence.

When he finally finished the third picture, he set down the crayon and sighed, feeling the cramp starting in his fingers.

Feeling a faint spark of victory, Will shuffled toward the TV, hopeful for a bit of downtime. But when he turned on the TV, his hopes sank instantly.

The screen was locked—literally. There was no remote, and the channel wouldn’t budge out of Nick Jr., where brightly animated characters sang songs about sharing and brushing teeth.

Taking one of the bottles, Will felt the need for a little victory and sat on the couch, nursing the bottle  and watching the characters dance on TV. 

Will had barely managed to finish one of the bottles and two of the sippy cups before his exhaustion took over. His stomach was bloated from the heavy, slushy mess.

When Zoey arrived around 1 PM, Will was asleep on the couch, slumped against the cushions. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting long shadows on the floor, but Zoey barely spared him a glance as she walked in.

Will’s face was flushed, his thumb still resting loosely in his mouth, a hint of saliva on his lips from his earlier attempt to comfort himself. Zoey’s gaze flicked to him, and a small, almost imperceptible frown crossed her face.

She didn’t bother to wake him right away, but as she unpacked her things, she noticed the scattered remains of the bottles and sippy cups. He hadn’t finished everything.

Without a word, she walked over to him, nudging his shoulder sharply. Will blinked awake, groggy and confused, his thumb still halfway to his mouth. Zoey’s expression was neutral, but there was something in the air—an expectation.

“You’re not supposed to be asleep, let alone on the couch” she said, her tone flat, almost scolding. “Get up - you forgot to change your pull-ups today.”

Will scrambled to sit up, his mind still foggy with sleep, as Zoey’s gaze hardened.

Will scrambled to sit up, his mind still foggy from sleep. 

“Dad," she said, her tone cutting through the haze. "Come on. We're late to pick up Max.”

She didn't wait for a response, her voice flat, as if she had already said this a hundred times before. It wasn’t even a question. Just a statement of fact, and Will knew better than to argue.

Will stood up hesitantly, feeling the weight of his situation like a physical presence, his thumb hovered near his mouth, but he resisted the impulse. 

“But I’m only wearing pull-ups and a t-shirt,” Will protested softly, his voice small and defeated.

Zoey’s expression remained unchanged as she fixed him with a glance. “That’s fine,” she said with a shrug. “Babies don’t care what they wear.”

Her tone made it clear that any further objection would be useless. Will swallowed his discomfort and nodded weakly. There was no arguing with Zoey; he was just a child now, in her eyes.

He took two steps, and fell on all four, remembering the rules. 

This wasn’t going to work for Zoey, they were in a hurry. Like a scolding mother she pulled him up from the wrist and led him out the door. 

Will followed behind, feeling pulled by the pace of which Zoey moved. 

As they reached the car, Will instinctively moved toward the driver’s side, only to hear Zoey’s voice cut through the air with firm authority.

"Nope, you're in the back, buddy," Zoey said, her voice cool, the word buddy lingering in the air like a subtle jab—just another reminder of how small she saw him now. Without a glance back, she slid into the driver’s seat. “You didn’t finish all your babas today, did you?”

Zoey clicked Will into his seat, the buckle clicking securely into place with a practiced motion. With a quick, almost casual flick, she engaged the child lock. She was in control of the car, and by extension, everything else around them.

The car hummed to life, the engine purring as she kept her eyes fixed on the road. Her fingers tapped a quiet rhythm on the steering wheel, a rhythm that matched the pulse of her calm authority. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a bottle and handed it to Will, her gaze never straying from the road. “Use both hands,” she said, her tone like a mother talking to a toddler just learning to feed themselves.

Will mumbled something under his breath—probably a grunt or a half-hearted apology—but Zoey didn’t wait for a response. She knew better.

As they neared Max’s school, he was already waiting outside, bouncing on his heels with that eager energy only a kid could have. Without missing a beat, Zoey took the bottle from Will’s hand and swapped it out, the exchange silent but fluid—one they both knew by heart.

And then, just like that, they were on their way to the pizzeria.

 

Waiting for Pizza 

Zoey and Max stepped out of the car, chatting easily as they made their way toward the pizzeria. Will, left behind in the backseat, sat frozen. His eyes flicked nervously toward the doors, his breath shallow. The thought that Zoey might decide to pull him out—expose him—tightened his chest. Instinctively, his thumb found its way into his mouth again, and he sucked harder, the familiar motion dulling the sharp edge of his anxiety.

A few minutes later, Zoey returned, her voice floating in the air, almost disinterested. “Max is just waiting for the pizza.”

She glanced down at the floorboard, her eyes catching on the small, well-worn doll. Its fabric cheeks were faded, the painted eyes big and wide, still full of that childlike innocence. She had brought it for this very moment—and now she remembered.

A sly smile curled at the corners of her lips, her gaze hardening with quiet control. She wasn’t finished yet.

“Your task,” she said, her voice now sharp, almost militaristic, “is to kiss this doll on the cheek. Until I’m satisfied.”

Will hesitated, his thumb still lazily lodged in his mouth. His eyes flicked from the doll to her face, searching for some kind of clue. Slowly, he reached for the doll, the weight of her gaze heavy on him. He leaned forward and pressed a quick, dry peck to the doll’s cheek—barely a brush, barely an effort.

Zoey didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. She simply raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable.

“Hmm... something’s missing,” she murmured, her voice still soft but lined with playful disapproval. “Try again.”

Will pulled back, confusion flickering in his eyes. What did she want? What was he supposed to do differently?

Then Zoey leaned in just slightly, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Maybe… try taking your thumb out first?”

He blinked, suddenly aware of the thumb still lodged in his mouth, cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled his thumb free, the faint sheen of saliva glistening on it. The silence between them thickened, as though the air was waiting for him to fill it with something—anything—other than resistance.

Zoey nodded, almost approvingly. “Better. Now... make it sound like you mean it. Babies don’t give dry kisses.”

“Here, let me show you…” Zoey’s eyes never left him as she leaned in, her lips pressing against his cheek with a soft, wet sound. She lingered for a moment, her lips staying just a little too long, the kiss almost too intimate, too deliberate. When she pulled away, her gaze held his—sharp and unyielding.

“There,” she said, her voice low and clear. “That’s how it’s done.”

Will could feel her saliva drooling down his chick, his throat tightened, but he nodded faintly, leaned in again, and this time parted his lips slightly.

“MMMAAH.”

The wet, sloppy kiss echoed embarrassingly in the confined space, and when he pulled back, a thin line of saliva clung to the doll’s cheek.

Zoey smiled with faint approval. She reached into her bag, pulled out a small tube of shimmery pink lip gloss, and uncapped it.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she stated, before gently coloring Will’s lips with the sticky gloss. The scent was sugary and artificial—something meant for a much younger girl.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “Now, I want as many perfect little kiss shapes on this dolly as possible before Max comes back.”

She pressed the doll back into his hands and added cheerfully, “Don’t forget the sound. And the drool. Just like before, sweetheart, okay?”

 

Evening

Back at the house, the scent of hot pizza still hung in the air—sharp, tempting, cruel. Will didn’t get any.

Zoey handed Max a plate stacked with slices, then turned to Will, not bothering with sympathy.
“You can have a bath instead,” she said, already moving toward the living room. “You smell like a car.”

Will nodded, retreating upstairs. He undressed slowly on the cold tile, folding each piece of clothing with too much care. The bathwater was tepid, but it didn’t matter—comfort wasn’t the point. This was about control.

When he came back down, dressed in pastel pajamas too small for him—sleeves tight at the wrists, pants clinging at the ankles—he looked like a child playing dress-up. The effect wasn’t just visual. It made him feel smaller, too.

Zoey lounged on the couch, eyes flicking up from her phone. A sweet smile curled her lips.
“Perfect timing,” she said, patting the floor in front of her. “Sit. Play with these.”

She dropped a set of bright baby blocks in front of him. Will hesitated. The plastic gleamed under the light—colorful, sharp-edged, unmistakably infantile.
“Come on, Daddy,” she added, her tone sing-song and sharp. “You know the rules. You’re the baby now.”

Will sat stiffly and picked up the blocks. His fingers trembled slightly as he began stacking them. Each click sounded louder than it should. Every motion felt stretched out, magnified. Zoey watched, pleased.

After a few minutes, she clapped.
“Time for the talent show.”

Will froze. He looked to Max, still eating, not looking up. There would be no protest. Only performance.

“Come on,” she coaxed, patting the couch. “Stand up. Showtime.”

Will rose slowly. The soft crinkle of his pull-up was deafening. His pajamas stretched tightly, exaggerating every childish line of his body.

The music started—bouncy, bright, unmistakably for toddlers.
“Hop like a bunny, hop-hop-hop!”

He obeyed, thumb in mouth, hopping in place. Each bounce was stiff, graceless. His cheeks flushed with heat.
“Spin like a dancer, twirl-twirl-twirl!” Zoey cheered.

He twirled, arms raised. His thumb bobbed with each rotation, the pacifier he didn’t yet wear already implied in the motion. Dizzy, he sucked harder for balance.

“Wave your hands high!”
He waved, the sleeves riding high on his arms, exposing pale skin, making him look even smaller.

“March like a soldier!”
He lifted his knees, stomping obediently, lips glistening with spit.

“Silly face!”
Will puffed his cheeks and widened his eyes, ridiculous, pathetic, exactly what she wanted.

“Shake your little booty!”
Zoey laughed. “My favorite part!”

He rocked his hips, slow and uncertain. The outline of his pull-up peeked through the fabric with every movement.

“Now crawl!”
He dropped to his knees. The rug muffled the sound of his palms and knees. His thumb stayed in place. Saliva pooled at the corner of his mouth.

“Clap along!”
Will sat, legs splayed, posture hunched. His clapping was off-rhythm, soft, trembling. He glanced at Max again. Still no reaction.

The song ended. Zoey hit play on the next one.

“Okay, Daddy,” she said, smiling. “No need to dance this time. Just sing.”

Will sat there, thumb still in, face flushed. He mumbled, “Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O...”

“Louder!” she clapped.

He forced out a wet “Oink!” flapping his hands near his cheeks. Zoey beamed.

But then her expression sharpened. She clicked off the camera and reached into her pocket, pulling out a pacifier—bright, rubbery, unmistakable.
“I think we need to make this more fun.”

Before he could speak, she gently pulled his thumb from his mouth and pushed the pacifier in.
“Shhh.”

It nestled firmly behind his lips. He blinked, stunned.

“Now again,” she said. “Sing for me. Animal sounds and all.”

Will mumbled around the rubber, the words slurred, his voice thick with shame.
“Ow’ MacDonno hadda fam... E-I-E-I-O…”

“Yes! And how do the pigs go?”
He gave a muffled, “Oink,” barely audible.

Zoey’s eyes sparkled. “Perfect. Let’s try something harder.”

She cued up another song: “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.”
“We’ll start slow,” she said sweetly. “I want you to sing and move. Can you do that?”

Will nodded, pacifier bobbing in his mouth. The music began—slow, almost eerie.

“Head... shoulders... knees and toes...”

He moved stiffly, tapping each part. His muffled voice barely kept up.

“Faster,” Zoey said, tapping the screen. The tempo doubled.
“Head, shoulders, knees and toes!”

Will stumbled, movements jerky. The pacifier made his voice sound babyish, slurred.

“Faster.”

The music hit 4x speed.

His arms flailed. He struggled to keep pace. His words were nonsense now.
“Heh, shoh-shers, nees an’ toze…”

Zoey laughed. “Faster still!”

At 6x, he was panting, limbs wild. The pacifier suctioned tight to his mouth. His voice became nothing but babble.

“Almost there, Daddy.”

At 8x, he was sweating, disoriented, red-faced. The song screamed at him.

And finally—10x.

The music was a blur. His movements were frantic, limbs barely coordinated. He gasped, stumbling, lips working around the pacifier in a desperate attempt to keep up.

“Heh, shoh-shers, nees an’ toze...”

Zoey clapped, delighted.
“You did it,” she cooed. “Good little daddy.”

Will dropped to his knees, then sank fully onto the floor, too tired to comprehend what had just happened. The pacifier bobbed limply in his mouth as he gasped for air, cheeks flushed with exertion and humiliation.

She let the silence hang like a weight. Then, casually—
“Now. Bedtime. You’ve earned it.”

Bedtime

She stood and turned toward the hallway, stretching her arms as if ending a workout. Behind her, Will remained on all fours.

“Crawl,” she said without looking back.

His body moved before his brain could catch up, instinct overriding shame. Each crinkling step across the carpet was slow, deliberate, and echoing in his ears. He could feel his body sinking lower with every shuffle forward, the pacifier rhythmically tugging against his lips.

When they reached the bedroom, Zoey didn’t waste a second. She moved straight to the dresser, fingers skimming over a small stack of brightly colored board books.

“Let’s see…” she murmured, voice light and faux-thoughtful. “We did Goodnight Moon last night. Hmm. I think we need something a little more fun tonight. Maybe... with animal noises.”

She crouched with care, flipping through titles like a librarian humoring an over-tired toddler:
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie… Chicka Chicka Boom Boom… No, David!
Then she stilled.

“Oh,” she said, lifting one. “This one’s perfect.”

She held up a thick, well-loved copy of Barnyard Dance! by Sandra Boynton. The cover was bold, goofy, unmistakably juvenile.

Her eyes gleamed.

“A classic,” she said warmly. “Silly, energetic—and just what a tired little daddy needs after his big performance.”

Will’s stomach twisted. He knew that book. Rhythmic. Directive. Embarrassing.

She patted the mattress. “Up.”

He climbed into bed without a word. The sheets were already turned down, the blanket soft and childishly cheerful—covered in pastel stars and cartoon bears. He lay on his back, arms straight at his sides, like a doll being tucked away.

Without a word, Zoey reached to the nightstand and picked up a warm bottle, condensation gently fogging the plastic. She plucked the pacifier from his lips and replaced it with the bottle’s nipple.

“Dinner,” she said softly, slipping it between his lips.

Will began to suck, slow and rhythmic. The milk was warm and faintly sweet. His mouth worked steadily, cheeks hollowing and relaxing.

Zoey perched on the edge of the bed and opened the book with a deliberate rustle, like the start of a ritual.

“Ready?” she asked, smiling down at him. “Let’s read together.”

Her voice came alive with exaggerated joy, bouncing through the pages:

“Stomp your feet! Clap your hands! Everybody ready for a barnyard dance!”

Will kept nursing the bottle, but his eyes flicked away, shame deepening as each line hit like a command.

She paused, then added playfully, “C’mon, Daddy—let’s see that big horsey gallop. Just your fingers, nice and gentle.”

Will's free hand twitched awkwardly on top of the blanket, mimicking a childlike trot with curled fingers.

“Bow to the horse! Bow to the cow!” she read aloud, grinning.

“Little bow, Daddy,” she whispered. And he obeyed, lowering his head just slightly, the bottle still anchored in his mouth.

The story moved on, page after page, and Will followed—mechanically, silently. The silly rhymes wrapped around him like cotton. Ridiculous. Infantilizing. Inescapable.

Zoey’s voice softened as she neared the end.

“With a neigh and a moo and a cock-a-doodle-doo… the dance is done. The cows say moo.”

She closed the book with a soft snap. Will's eyes had gone distant, unfocused. The bottle was nearly empty, his suckling slowed to a lazy rhythm.

Zoey waited for the last drop to vanish before plucking the bottle from his lips with care. Then, gently, she brushed his chin.

“Now your thumb,” she said softly, but firmly. “We can’t have you getting too used to pacifiers. Thumbs are more natural.”

Will hesitated—but only for a moment. Then his thumb slid into place, wet from milk and resignation.

Zoey smiled, smoothing the blanket over him like a child being tucked in tight.

“Oh, and look at the time,” she said brightly. “Only 7:20. Early bedtime tonight—just like we talked about. Can’t have cranky babies tomorrow.”

She leaned in, her voice a mock whisper.
“Goodnight, Daddy.”

The lamp clicked off. The door closed with a soft finality.

Will lay there in the dark, thumb nestled between his lips, the lingering taste of warm milk clinging to his tongue. The ceiling above him was dim and silent, the room still. Outside, Zoey’s footsteps receded down the hallway—steady, casual, unconcerned.

He didn’t move.

The blanket was too soft. The silence too heavy. And the weight of the night pressed down on him like a second skin—warm, childish, and utterly inescapable.

 

[babybruce]

I absolutely love this. I can't wait for more. Thanks

[oadbl]

Friday is my shopping day

Will woke to the soft sound of drawers sliding open and shut.
Sunlight filtered through pastel curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room. The air was thick with baby powder and the faint sourness of yesterday’s milk. His thumb was still tucked loosely in his mouth, damp with sleep, and the blanket clung to his chest like a second skin.

Zoey stood by the dresser, dressed in crisp, neutral colors. Her movements were brisk and efficient. Without a word, she folded something carefully and placed it in a small tote bag on the bed. Then she turned, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve.

“Morning, Daddy,” she said, her voice syrupy and calm. “Max is already at school. We’ve got a big day ahead, so up.”

Will sat up slowly, blinking, still fuzzy from sleep. He shifted under the blanket—and winced at the cold dampness clinging to him. Zoey noticed.

“We’ll fix that,” she said, walking over with a small plastic bundle in hand. She placed it beside him with a soft, rubbery thump.

Two diapers. Thick, printed, unmistakable. No explanation needed.

“I expect double padding today,” she said plainly. “And make sure the tapes are snug this time. No bunching.” Her voice was cool, businesslike. “Five minutes. Meet me outside. Dressed. Quiet. Waiting by the car.”

Without another word, she turned and left.

Will sat frozen for a moment. His thumb hovered near his lips before he caught himself. His eyes settled on the two diapers—two. Thickness. Waddle. Bulk. No hiding it.

He stripped off his damp pajamas, the cool air biting at his skin. Layering the two diapers as instructed, the unfamiliar bulk weighed heavy. He pulled on the oversized T-shirt Zoey had laid out for him, noticing how it barely reached past his waist. Raising his arms to adjust it, the hem lifted, exposing the thick diapers beneath.

His feet met the cold floor, and he glanced down at the sandals she’d provided: open-toe, toddler-style, but sized for adults. Wide, unyielding straps and rigid soles. He slipped them on. The crinkling of the diapers beneath was constant, unavoidable.

When he stepped outside five minutes later, the morning air bit at his bare thighs. The crinkling followed immediately, relentless.

Zoey was nowhere to be seen. He waited by the car, the quiet stretching and his breath slowing as he sat down on the asphalt, thumb in mouth.

Inside, Zoey had already eaten—calm, composed, untouched by the awkwardness outside.

Twenty minutes later, Zoey appeared from the house, purse in hand. She opened the car door and buckled him in.

Behind his thumb, he asked, “What about breakfast?”

“Oh, right,” she said, pulling a bottle from her purse, and reminded him to use both hands.

Trip to the Mall

As Zoey started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, she glanced over at Will, who was sucking down the Similac she had given him as breakfast. The formula tasted cloyingly sweet, with an artificial aftertaste that lingered uncomfortably.

At the mall, Zoey handed Will a childish bag with a leash attached to the back. Feeling the weight of the situation, Will removed his thumb from his mouth and hesitated. "Would you like a paci instead?" Zoey asked, her voice loud enough for anyone around to hear? 

Their first stop was Sephora. Zoey instructed Will to sit on the floor near the fragrance section. The air was thick with floral scents, and the polished black-and-white floors gleamed under the bright lights. Will's face flushed with embarrassment as he lowered himself to the ground. As Zoey moved swiftly from section to section he found himself crawling behind her. 

When he complained, Zoey clipped a pacifier to his shirt. "No talking," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. Will's cheeks burned as he sucked on his thumb, feeling the eyes of passing shoppers on him.

Next, they visited Macy’s. Zoey found a few dresses she wanted to try on. Approaching an older woman nearby, she explained, “This is Will. He needs a little timeout right now—just to help him settle. Could you please keep an eye on him for me?”

The woman nodded with a warm smile, accepting the request.

Zoey guided Will to a quiet corner and knelt beside him. “Be a good boy and wait right here for me, okay? I’m going to try on some pretty dresses, and when I’m all done, we’ll have lots of fun again.”

There he stood—a grown man sucking his thumb, nose pressed softly against the corner wall—in the biggest store at the mall, while his daughter tried on dresses.

Like most young women, Zoey was obsessed with victoria’s secret, and a visit to the mall was never complete without it. 

Will’s frustrated screams bounced off the cramped aisles, drawing sharp looks from nearby women. Zoey’s jaw tightened as she turned just long enough for him to make a break — but the leash snapped taut, yanking him back like a soldier pulled back into formation.

“Where do you think you’re going, daddy?” Zoey barked, voice cold and sharp.

“No! I don’t wanna!” Will spat, collapsing onto the floor, fists pounding the tile with childish rage.

Zoey didn’t flinch. Kneeling swiftly, she jammed the pacifier into his mouth with firm authority. “Enough. Shut it, daddy. You will stay right here until I say otherwise.”

Will’s sobs were muffled but persistent. Zoey’s gaze swept the aisle, eyes hard as steel. “You want to make this harder on yourself? Because I will not tolerate this behavior.”

Her hand gripped his leash tighter, leash slack disappearing completely. “Get it together, now. You’re a grown-man.”

Gradually, the whimpers faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of his pacifier bobbing. Zoey kept her voice cold and clipped. “Good. Keep that up.”

She stood, hands on hips, eyes scanning the store like a drill sergeant overseeing her squad. “Move out, and don’t test me again.”

Will crawled to his feet, subdued and obedient, the leash a constant reminder of who held the reins. Zoey’s expression never softened. This wasn’t about comfort — it was discipline.

 

Lunch time 

Zoey led Will into the bustling food court, the air thick with the hum of voices and the clatter of trays. He remained pacified, the soft silicone nipple muffling any trace of resistance. Yet behind that silencing barrier, she granted him a flicker of autonomy—a brief, carefully measured illusion of freedom.

“You can pick what you want to eat,” she said, calm but commanding, her eyes gleaming with quiet authority.

Will’s gaze drifted across the gaudy stalls—pizza, burgers, noodles—each one garish and greasy, absurdly childish for a man in his position. He hesitated, then pointed toward a booth piled high with sticky, sauce-drenched ribs.

“Dickey’s,” he mumbled around the pacifier, not quite thinking how messy things might get.

Zoey’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.
“Good choice,” she said.

At the table, she pushed his chair in tightly, pinning him close. When he lifted a hand toward the pacifier, she slapped it away with practiced ease.

“Hands up,” she ordered.

He obeyed immediately. She wiped them down methodically before turning to his tray, cutting the ribs into bite-sized chunks.

“Eat with your hands,” Zoey said, setting the plate in front of him.

She turned back to her salad, taking slow, deliberate bites as she watched him fumble through the sticky mess. Barbecue sauce clung to his fingers, smeared across his cheeks and chin. Each attempt only made things worse—he was drenched in it, just as she’d planned.

“Oops—almost forgot,” she said suddenly, flashing a mock-apologetic smile. “Sorry, baby.”

She tapped the pacifier still bobbing between his lips, then gently tugged it free. It didn’t help much, but at least some of the food finally made its way into his mouth.

He finished before she did and looked up, tentative.

Putting his thumb in his mouth, Will asked with a lisp, “Can I feed myself the potato purée?”

Without a word, Zoey replaced his thumb with the pacifier.

Only when she was finished eating did she remove it again. She dipped the spoon into the purée and brought it to his lips, making gentle airplane noises just loud enough for nearby tables to hear.

He swallowed each bite in silence, cheeks flushed. She smiled sweetly, never breaking rhythm.

“All done,” she cooed. “Now sit still and wait.”

He didn’t move. The pacifier was back in his mouth, and he sucked it reflexively, nervously. Hands in his lap, eyes downcast—completely still. He knew better than to fidget.

Zoey stood and vanished into the crowd.

When she returned, she carried a sleek cup of coffee for herself—and in her other hand, the most garishly colorful frozen yogurt she could find. It was piled high in a neon cup, topped with sprinkles, gummy bears, candy bits—an explosion of sugar clearly meant for a child.

She sat across from him, sipped her coffee, then gently removed the pacifier.

“Time for dessert,” she said brightly.

Spoonful by spoonful, she fed him the yogurt. The cold sweetness mixed unpleasantly with the lingering tang of barbecue and mashed potatoes, creating a swirl of confusion on his tongue. She made sure to let some drip onto his shirt, then another smear—watching with quiet satisfaction as the mess spread like a slow bloom.

“Oh no,” she teased, dabbing at the stains with a napkin. “Such a messy little eater.”

Each bite felt colder, stickier, more humiliating than the last—but still, she kept feeding him.

When the cup was empty, she looked at him with mock curiosity.

“Pacifier or thumb?”

As if on instinct, Will slipped his thumb into his mouth and lifted his other hand in the air—already anticipating what came next.

Zoey leaned in and began wiping his face and fingers with careful, practiced swipes, like a mother tending to a particularly fussy toddler. When she finished, she unclipped the pacifier from his shirt, cleaned the remaining traces of purée and yogurt from his chin (using the pacifier), and replaced the pacifier with his thumb.

“There,” she murmured, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Much better.”

Back towards the car is Babys r Us 

Back towards the car Zoey had replaced the leash around Will once again, giving him a light tug - he followed. 

His shirt was stained, his face still faintly sticky, and the pacifier bobbling between his lips. 

The leash pulled taut as she led him through the crowded mall, weaving past kiosks and slow-moving families. Her pace was brisk, purposeful. His, hesitant. 

They were halfway to the parking garage on the far side when Zoey suddenly stopped.

“Wait,” she said, eyes catching on a store sign across the corridor – Babies “R” Us. 

Will froze, her head tilted, a small smirk forming. 

Without a word, she redirected their path, turning them toward the storefront.

The leash tightened again, and he followed—reluctantly, nervously, glancing at the colorful displays in the windows. Diapers. Bottles. Plush animals. Pastel furniture. 

But before they reached the first aisle, something else hit him: a sudden, uncomfortable pressure in his gut, he said quietly, shifting on his feet. 

He shifted awkwardly on his feet, voice barely audible.
“I... I need the restroom.”

Zoey kept walking.

“Zoey, potty?!” he said louder, the pacifier slipping between his words.

She finally turned, one brow raised. “Now?”

He nodded, cheeks burning.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Just watched him. The leash held firm between them.

Then, without a word, she turned and resumed walking into the store.

“Zoey,” he whispered again, more desperate this time. “Potty, please…”

They crossed the threshold beneath the soft glow of overhead lights. The air was thick with the scent of baby powder and plastic. Rows of pacifiers, onesies, teething toys, and plush creatures surrounded him—every object a reminder of what he was now expected to be.

His pace faltered. The pressure grew worse.

He tugged gently on the leash. “Zoey—Zoey, I really need to go.”

That’s when she stopped. Slowly, deliberately, she turned to face him, And crouched slightly so her eyes met his. Her voice was calm. Even gentle.

“That’s what your double diapers are for,” she said, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “You’ll hold it... or you won’t. Either way, we’re not stopping.”

He blinked, stunned, humiliated.

His steps grew smaller, more awkward. The pressure in his gut was building fast. He tugged again on the leash. The pacifier now trembled in his mouth as his steps became stiff, unsure. Every aisle they passed—baby strollers, diaper bags, nursery furniture—seemed like a mirror, reflecting the quiet truth of his role.

And deep inside, that pressure only grew stronger.

They hadn’t made it past the second aisle.

Zoey stood in front of a display of pacifier clips, idly examining a pink one shaped like a cartoon giraffe. She seemed completely absorbed, as if she didn’t have a grown man tethered to her wrist—shifting anxiously behind her.

Will's stomach clenched again, harder this time.

He froze in place, the world around him narrowing. A wave of panic washed over him—too far from the restrooms now, too late to ask again. And Zoey had already made her answer clear.

Trembling, he glanced around. No one was nearby. Just the soft music overhead, the pastel glow of nursery lights, and the quiet rustle of his own shame.

And then, near the second aisle, it happened.

The diaper crinkled audibly beneath him, compressed between layers of fabric and humiliation. He began to suck on his pacifier harder and faster. Heat spread slowly, undeniably, as his body gave in. A flush rushed up his neck, his knees trembling from the release—and from knowing she was only a few steps away, watching or not, always knowing.

Zoey turned her head slightly, not fully looking at him, but enough.

She smiled.

Not surprised. Not disappointed.

Just... satisfied.

As Will went, the weight of the diaper caused him to fall back. 

Due to the shock, his pacifier fell out of his mouth and hung from his shirt. Wanting to cry, the trusty thumb drifted to his mouth, and he sucked on it automatically.

“Come along,” she said sweetly. “We still have shopping to do.”

And without waiting, she walked down the next aisle.

Will crawled behind her, diaper heavy, thumb in his mouth, the world around them shrinking into soft music and pastel shame.

Not needing to be told what he was anymore.

They passed shelves of rattles, bibs, bottles, and soft creams. Eventually, she stopped at a display of plush animals—each one with a pacifier clipped to its front.

“Pick one,” she said, not even glancing at him.

Will hesitated, then let his thumb fall from his lips. He reached out slowly, his fingers brushing over frogs, puppies, lambs. He finally chose a floppy giraffe with a soft yellow pacifier clipped to its chest—a WubbaNub.

Zoey gave a nod.
“Good choice.”

She added it to the basket, right beside a pack of pastel training diapers—thicker than what he wore now. He didn’t say anything. The packaging said enough.

At the register, Zoey placed each item on the counter with calm efficiency. The cashier, a young woman barely out of college, scanned everything with disinterest—until her eyes fell on the diapers. Then the leash. Then Will.

Zoey smiled pleasantly.
“Excuse me,” she said, as if she were asking for extra bags. “Is there a family restroom nearby? I need to change him before we go.”

 

The girl blinked, color rising in her cheeks. “Uh... yes. Back near the formula aisle.”

“Perfect,” Zoey said.

She paid, bagged everything herself, and then came the leash tug as she walked back into the store. 

Zoey led them unhurriedly to the family restroom, her grip steady on the leash. She knocked once—out of politeness more than necessity—then pushed open the door.

He followed.

Potty Time

The room swallowed him whole. Pale yellow walls stretched endlessly around the massive changing table where he lay flat, small and vulnerable. Above his head, a pastel mobile spun slowly, soft clouds and sleepy stars twirling in lazy circles, casting gentle shadows that flickered like a lullaby on the wall.

“Up,” she said, patting the changing table.

He hesitated, then climbed up, the plastic beneath him cool and crinkling.

He felt the plastic crinkle beneath him, cold and unfamiliar.

“Hands to your side” , Zoey said as she buckled him into the changing table. 

She opened the new pack, pulled one thick pastel diaper free, and began the change.
 

As Zoey took off his pants (narrating everything),  “Told you the double layer was a good idea,” she said, more to herself than to him.

Zoey was calm. Methodical.

His cheeks burned, and he turned his head to the wall, wishing to disappear into the pale yellow paint.

“Eyes on me.,” she said firmly, coaxing him to prop himself halfway up, awkward and stiff, like a toddler struggling to be brave.

Will met her gaze, body caught between upright and curled, as though frozen in a half-hearted sit-up. Vulnerable. Obedient.

She finished cleaning him, then slipped the thick new diaper beneath him, powdered lightly, and taped it closed with practiced ease.

“There we go,” she said, patting it once.

She tossed the used diaper and his soiled pants into the bin. No hesitation. No discussion.

Zoey reached into the shopping bag and pulled out a fresh WubbaNub. Will watched it dangle in her hand—soft plush, pale yellow, innocent. A baby’s toy. His new pacifier.

Just as she was about to swap it out, the door creaked open behind them.

A little girl, no more than three, toddled in, her hand held securely in her mother’s. She wore a bright dress covered in cartoon animals, and her ponytail bounced as she walked.

“Mommy, potty!” she chirped proudly, beaming up at the woman beside her.

Will’s eyes followed her, heart sinking as she made her way to the small, brightly colored potty seat in the corner with practiced confidence. Her mother crouched beside her, murmuring praise, helping her out of her undies.

He felt something twist in his chest.

Zoey calmly popped out the pacifier between his lips and replaced it with the new WubbaNub. The soft fabric animal brushed his cheek, and for a moment, he wanted to cry from how… comforting it was. And how humiliating.

She flicked the switch on the mobile above him. It began to turn slowly—clouds, stars, crescent moons drifting overhead. A quiet lullaby hummed from the speaker.

Will’s stomach dropped. The pastel shapes spun lazily, casting soft, childish shadows across the yellow wall. They reminded him of nursery wallpaper—of a time before memory. But now, they boxed him in. Not soothing. Smothering.

“I’ll be right back, Daddy,” Zoey said sweetly, brushing a hand through Will’s hair. Her voice dropped into something lower—firm, parental.

“And if you’re not staring at that mobile when I get back… you’ll be in big trouble. Eyes up. Got it?”

Will gave a tiny nod, barely perceptible. She smiled, satisfied, then turned and walked toward the grown-up stall. The door shut behind her with a metallic click—final, sealing.

Will didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare think about turning his head. His eyes locked on the pastel mobile spinning slowly above him. Clouds. Stars. Crescent moons, drifting in slow, lazy loops. 

He couldn’t see them. Couldn’t turn his head. But he could hear everything—the rustle of clothes, the familiar plastic clunk of a toddler potty seat being set on the toilet, the gentle praise in the mother’s voice.

Will bit down harder on the pacifier. His cheeks were burning.

That little girl was still learning. Still growing. But she was moving forward.

And he—he was lying flat on a changing table. Diapered. Restrained. Silently ordered to keep his eyes on a baby mobile or face punishment. He wasn’t learning anything. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He was shrinking.

“Good job, sweetheart,” the woman murmured. “So proud of you.”

Water ran. The sink squeaked.

Then, behind the stall door, he heard Zoey emerge. He couldn’t see her, but he recognized the sound of her heels, the brisk snap of her skirt being adjusted, her confident, casual energy.

She noticed the mother and daughter immediately and offered a smooth, gracious smile—as if none of this were unusual. As if she had every right to be here with him, like this.

“Sorry about the music,” she said lightly, walking over to Will and flicking the mobile again. “It keeps him calm.”

The lullaby resumed its syrupy melody. Clouds and moons began turning once more above his head.

The woman—Jen, he would soon learn—tilted her head slightly. Curious. Not unkind, but clearly trying to make sense of the scene.
“Is he…?”

Zoey dried her hands, utterly unbothered. “Regression therapy. He’s full-time. It’s helped with a lot of things.”

Jen blinked. “Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah.” Zoey smiled. Then stepped casually closer to Will, just as Jen and her daughter approached the sinks.

The mobile was already slowing again. Jen reached up and gave it a gentle spin, then glanced down and adjusted the WubbaNub resting between Will’s lips. Her hand brushed his cheek with the easy care of a mother. Soft. Automatic.

Will flinched.

Not from pain. From shame.

He wasn’t just being talked about like a toddler—he was being cared for like one. By a complete stranger. With the same casual tenderness someone might give a baby in a stroller at the mall.

He wanted to scream. Or cry. But all he could do was lie there and suck quietly.

Zoey watched with a faint smirk. “Stress, control issues, trauma responses. This”—she gestured lightly to the diaper, the table, the mobile—“gives him structure. Stability. It’s actually really good for him.”

Will stared at the ceiling. The pastel stars spun. His chest felt tight. The pacifier bobbed with each breath, soft but suffocating.

Jen stepped back as her daughter dried her hands. Still watching him, still trying to make sense of the scene. A grown man. Helpless. Pacified. Discussed like a toddler at daycare.

She tried to bring the moment back to something normal. “Mine just turned three,” she said. “We’re working on nighttime dryness now. Still hit or miss.”

Zoey beamed. “That’s great. You’re lucky—he’s nowhere near there,” she said, glancing down at Will with indulgent fondness. “He’s still in diapers full-time. And I mean thick ones. Even the premium brands can barely keep up with him.”

Will shut his eyes. Each note of the lullaby curled around him like gauze. Every word added weight to the shame in his chest.

He heard Jen murmur something like, “Oh, I see,” and then turn back to her daughter.

He risked a glance. The girl was getting a sticker from her mom—a glittery gold star, handed out for using the potty.

He had no reward. No praise. No agency. Just the rustle of plastic beneath him and the pastel moons mocking him from above.

The music wound down with a soft chime. Silence settled like a blanket.

Jen gave Zoey a brief, polite smile. “Well… good luck with everything.”

Zoey waved. “You too, mama. You’re doing great.”

The little girl gave a final twirl, proud and sparkly, and skipped toward the exit.

Then—she paused. Looked back at Will.

“Mommy,” she said brightly, her voice ringing across the tiled room. “That man’s a big baby.”

Will didn’t breathe.

Jen stiffened. “Shhh, honey,” she whispered, hurrying her daughter toward the door. “That’s not—just come on, sweetie.”

Zoey didn’t miss a beat. “She’s right,” she said “He is.”

The door swung closed behind them.

Silence again.

Zoey leaned in, fingers brushing his forehead. “Even the littlest ones can see it, Daddy. You’re exactly where you belong.”

Then, finally, she undid the strap across his chest.

“Well, let’s get you down from there,” she said with brisk cheer.

Will sat up slowly, dizzy with shame; his pants—stained, ruined.

She clipped the leash to the loop on his harness. The snap echoed.

“Let’s go.”

He shuffled behind her, thick diaper crinkling with every step. The hallway felt too quiet. Too bright.

At the car, she buckled him in, double-checking the straps like a good mother would.

Then—“Oh!” she gasped suddenly, like she’d remembered a forgotten errand. “We still need to get your reward, don’t we?”

Will’s stomach turned.

Zoey smiled wide. Bright. Cheerful.

Presents for Willy

He slowed at the entrance.

Zoey gave the leash a gentle tug—firm, practiced, calm.

Inside, the familiar scent of cotton stuffing and vanilla-scented plush hung in the air. Children bustled at stuffing stations, voices high and excited. Overhead, whimsical music played in a soft, never-ending lullaby loop.

Will’s eyes widened, scanning the space like he’d stepped into a cathedral of softness and chaos.

Zoey let go of the leash.

Without thinking, Will sank to all fours.

“You get to choose,” she said, her tone warm. “Anything you want.”

He crawled forward slowly, reverently, as though approaching an altar. Rows of bears, bunnies, dragons, and dogs lined the shelves—outfits ranging from tiny tuxedos to rainbow tutus. The colors were dazzling. The choices were overwhelming.

It felt like a dream. Or a memory. One he didn’t realize he missed until now.

He lifted a hand and pointed to a soft brown bear in a sky-blue onesie, tiny white booties on its feet.

Zoey smiled. “Very cute.”

Then she crouched beside him and gently turned his chin toward the back of the store.

“There’s one more you should see.”

Tucked behind a rack of holiday-themed outfits sat a bear nearly his size—fuzzy golden fur, arms outstretched, a red bow cinched confidently around its neck. Its wide, stitched grin looked absurdly proud. Like it knew.

“I think you should also get this one,” she said.

Will blinked. Around his pacifier, he mumbled, “I… I don’t even know where I’d put him.”

Zoey tilted her head. “We’ll make space. He’s the kind of bear you make space for.”

Will nodded slowly. Then, solemnly, he crawled over and wrapped his arms around the giant bear.

It hugged back. In its way.

At the stuffing station, a teenage employee greeted them with bright-eyed professionalism, hesitating only briefly at the sight of Will’s pacifier and leash. But she recovered quickly, smile steady.

“Would you like to add a heartbeat?” she asked.

Zoey answered. “Yes.”

“Scent?”

“Lavender.”

“Audio?”

Zoey crouched beside Will, brushing a stray curl off his forehead. Her voice dropped, soft and coaxing. “Say it, sweetheart.”

Will blinked up at her, unsure. Then, around the pacifier, he murmured, “I wuv you.”

Zoey turned to the attendant. “That’s the one.”

The machine didn’t catch it.

“Sorry,” the girl said politely. “Could you try again?”

Will’s cheeks flushed. He glanced at Zoey.

She only smiled and gave an encouraging nod.

He removed the pacifier just slightly and repeated, louder this time—still soft, still childlike, the syllables mushy with emotion.

“I wuv you.”

The machine confirmed the recording with a cheerful chime.

At the station, he sat on the floor, legs splayed, one foot pressing the pedal as the bear’s belly filled round and plush. From a bin of tiny red hearts, he selected one.

Zoey leaned in again, whispering, “Make a wish.”

He closed his eyes, held the heart to his lips, and tucked it inside the bear’s chest.

By the time it was stitched, fluffed, and dressed, Zoey had completed the birth certificate in her neatest handwriting.

Name: Mr. Berry the Bear
Birthday: Today
Belongs to: Baby Willy Williams

She made him pay at the register, pacifier bobbing between his lips, a credit card held delicately in both hands.

Outside, the mall lights shimmered like stars scattered across the polished floor. Will held the smaller bear—Mr. Booties—gently in his arms, while behind him, Mr. Berry the Bear trailed across the tile, one oversized paw clutched in Will’s hand like a toddler dragging a beloved blanky. The leash was clipped back onto his belt loop, and his WubbaNub swayed softly from his collar with each step.

“One last gift,” she said softly. “Because you’ve been so very, very good today.”

Back in the Car

Zoey opened the passenger door and gestured grandly. “For Mr. Berry.”

Will hesitated, still gently nursing his pacifier, as Zoey hefted the oversized bear into the front seat. It took effort—Mr. Berry’s limbs flopped dramatically, his massive head lolling to one side like he was already dozing. Once buckled in, he looked absurdly content, his wide-stitched grin fixed on the windshield like a copiloting cherub.

Zoey stood back, hands on her hips. “Perfect.”

Will blinked. “He gets shotgun?”

Zoey said nothing. She simply opened the rear door and patted the middle seat, where a booster cushion now waited—bright green, shaped like a smiling cartoon frog.

“Right here, sweetie.”

Will didn’t argue. He climbed in slowly, settling behind Mr. Berry’s plush, looming back. From his position, the giant bear filled the entire front row, completely dominating the view ahead.

The symbolism wasn’t lost on him.

As Zoey fastened his seatbelt, she leaned in close and whispered, “See? Doesn’t it feel nice… being little next to something bigger?”

Then she kissed the top of his head, soft and deliberate.

Sliding behind the wheel, Zoey adjusted the rearview mirror. In it, she could see him perfectly: WubbaNub in his mouth, Mr. Booties clutched to his chest, eyes fixed forward in wide-eyed quiet.

Will rested his cheek against the new teddy bear’s fleece belly—still warm from the store.

For a while, they just drove. A few turns. A few soft breaths.

Then something shifted.

Will’s brow creased slightly. This wasn’t the way home.

He lifted his head a bit, the pacifier bobbing with the motion.

Zoey noticed. Without a word, she reached across the center console, slipped the pacifier from his lips, and replaced it with something else—warm, vanilla-scented, waiting.

A baby bottle.

The smell hit first: creamy, nostalgic, sweet.

“You’re being such a good boy,” she murmured, her hand brushing lightly over his thigh. “Just relax now.”

Will latched on before he even thought about it. His lips sealed around the nipple, his body obeying faster than his mind could catch up. There was no room for protest. Only instinct.

Zoey kept her eyes on the road.

“We’re going to pick up Mommy,” she said casually. “Your wife. Peggy.”

The words dropped like soft thunder in the quiet cabin.

Will blinked. His fingers tightened around the teddy in his lap. His brain fought to reach up through the haze, to grab hold of what she'd just said.

But there was no space for questions. Just the slow pull of the bottle, the hum of tires on asphalt, the lull of lavender clinging to his hoodie.

Zoey let him finish in silence, never hurrying him. No fanfare. No explanation. Just the slow, inevitable rhythm of surrender.

When the bottle was empty, she gently took it from his hands and replaced the pacifier, guiding it back into his mouth with the same care a mother might give a newborn.

“She’s excited to see how far you’ve come,” Zoey said, glancing at him in the mirror. “I told her... you’ve been so very, very good.”

Will didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

By the time they pulled into the airport parking garage, the bottle was forgotten. His eyes were closed. The pacifier bobbed gently with each sleeping breath. Mr. Booties was curled tight in his arms.

His new dolly.

Zoey reached back and smoothed his hair, her touch soft and proud.

She smiled.

[oadbl]

the previous section was (slightly) rewritten  - hope you enjoy.

[oadbl]

Arrival 

The announcement came softly over the intercom:
“Flight 276 from Tokyo has landed. Now arriving at Gate 14.”

Zoey didn’t look up right away.

Will was still curled in her lap, pacifier back in place, thumb absently stroking the edge of Mr. Booties’ ear. His belly was warm with food, his eyelids fluttering in that vulnerable space between dozing and staying awake because someone else told him to.

She heard the footsteps before she saw her.

Peggy Carter walked with quiet purpose—heels clicking against the tile, dark coat still buttoned against Tokyo’s humidity, wheeled suitcase in tow. Her hair was pinned neatly despite the long-haul flight, though the shadows beneath her eyes hinted at jet lag she’d never confess to.

She spotted them instantly.

Stopped in her tracks.

There—right where the gate met the waiting area—her daughter lounged comfortably in a plastic airport chair, legs crossed, a tray of half-eaten food on the armrest. And in her lap…

Her husband.

No, not just her husband.

Will, seated sideways like a sleepy toddler, head resting under Zoey’s chin. Pacifier in. Holding a teddy bear. His feet dangled just above the floor. Mr. Berry sat buckled into the neighboring seat, grinning like an accomplice.

Peggy didn’t move.

Not right away.

Then Zoey looked up.

Their eyes met.

Peggy didn’t smile. Not yet. But there was something in her gaze—curiosity, caution… and the faintest shimmer of admiration.

Zoey gave the smallest nod, as if to say See? I kept my promise.

Peggy walked the last few steps.

“Well,” she said, pausing beside them. “Looks like someone had a long day.”

Zoey gave him a gentle squeeze. “We stayed busy. Didn’t we, Daddy?”

Peggy raised an eyebrow at the name—but didn’t comment.

She looked him over from head to toe. The pacifier. The stuffed animal. The way he leaned into Zoey without even realizing it.

Then she set down her suitcase, crouched, and reached out to brush a hand through his hair.

“You’ve come a long way,” she said softly.

Then, turning to Zoey, she added, “You’ve done well.”

Peggy’s fingers lingered for a moment in Will’s hair before she rose again, smoothing the front of her coat with a quiet exhale. Whatever she’d expected to find waiting at the gate, it hadn’t been this—certainly not with this kind of precision.

Then, Zoey’s voice, calm and composed, cut through the moment.

“Mom—Rule #11,” she said. “If you come back jet-lagged and cranky, I have full permission to put you in timeout. No phone. Just a blanket and tea. Enforce without mercy, remember?”

Peggy blinked, caught off guard—not by the words, but by the gentle steel behind them.

Zoey reached into her tote bag, producing a steaming paper cup with a handwritten label on the side: Chamomile & Honey – for Mommy. She held it out like a peace offering… or a directive.

“So before you become jet-lagged or cranky, I’ve got the tea right here,” she added. “But I want your phone now.”

Will shifted slightly in her lap, as if reacting to the change in tone. Zoey didn’t budge. Her expression was warm but firm—eerily similar to the one Peggy herself had used a thousand times at board meetings, or bedtime negotiations.

Peggy stared at the tea. Then at her daughter.

Then, with a soft laugh under her breath, she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out her phone, and handed it over.

“No screen time for Mommy,” Zoey said, slipping the device into her bag like it was contraband. “Timeout starts now.”

Peggy took the tea. “How long have you been waiting to pull that one?”

Zoey shrugged. “About… ten years.”

The two women shared a look—one that held so much unsaid history, both hard-earned and quietly loving. Between them, Will remained still, a pacified bundle of flannel and contentment.

Peggy finally took a sip.

“Mmm,” she murmured, eyes closing. “Okay. That’s actually perfect.”

Zoey smiled. “I know.”

Peggy looked down at her husband again—his eyes half-closed, his cheek pressed against Mr. Booties’ fuzzy paw, utterly calm in Zoey’s arms.

“And he really let you…” she gestured, vaguely, “do all this?”

Zoey glanced down at him, brushing a knuckle over his cheek.

“He didn’t let me,” she said simply. “He needed it.”

Peggy didn’t argue.

She just sat beside them, quietly sipping her tea—timeout enforced, and for once, gratefully accepted.

Back Home

The house felt still when they walked in—late enough for quiet, early enough for obligations to loom on the edges of tomorrow. The lights were dimmed. The thermostat hummed. Familiar.

Zoey kicked off her shoes, set down her mother’s tea-stained travel mug, and turned to Peggy.

“Shower,” she said, not unkindly. “Before the jet lag catches you and you try to answer emails with one eye closed.”

Peggy raised a brow but didn’t argue. “Hot water’s still free in this house, right?”

Zoey gave a mock shrug. “Depends on your behavior.”

Will, already swaying slightly on his feet, yawned behind his pacifier. Mr. Booties hung limply from one hand, and Mr. Berry had been left slumped in the back seat, buckled in like he might need to go somewhere on his own.

Zoey guided him gently toward the hallway.

“C’mon, Daddy. No story tonight—you’re too sleepy.”

Will didn’t resist. He just nodded, slow and small, letting her lead.

She brought him to his room—his new room, the one with the low bed, the noise machine in the corner, and the lock she always clicked last.

He didn’t speak when she tucked him in. Didn’t protest when she slipped the bottle into his hand. Vanilla, warm. His favorite.

Zoey knelt beside the bed, brushing the hair from his forehead.

“You were very good for me,” she whispered.

His eyes fluttered. The bottle tipped slowly upward.

“Sleep, now.”

She kissed his cheek, then stood, turned off the light, and stepped out. The soft click of the door locking behind her sounded like punctuation.

Down the hall, Peggy’s door was already cracked open.

Inside, Zoey found her mother curled up on top of the covers—damp hair fanned across the pillow, her coat hung neatly over the desk chair. Her tea mug sat empty on the nightstand, untouched since they’d returned.

She was fast asleep.

No pretense. No resistance.

Zoey stood for a moment in the doorway, watching the rise and fall of her breathing. The strongest woman she’d ever known, now peacefully surrendered to rest.

Quietly, she stepped in, pulled the blanket over her mother’s shoulders, and turned out the lamp.

Then she did what she always did.

She stepped out, pulled the door gently shut—

—and locked it.

[oadbl]

A Shifty Morning 

Peggy sat at the kitchen table in her robe, scrolling through emails on her tablet. Her fingers moved with the quick, mechanical precision of someone who’d survived five hostile takeovers before breakfast. She didn’t look up until a glass of water thunked onto the table in front of her.

“Drink,” Zoey said without glancing up from her phone.

Peggy arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You haven’t had water yet. You’re dehydrated, irritable, and about to make bad decisions. You know the rules.”

Peggy blinked. Slowly, she set the tablet aside. “You’re seriously pulling this on me now?”

“You agreed,” Zoey said, sliding into the chair across from her. Calm—the kind of calm only someone who held all the power could muster. “You said I could try it. I’m treating you the way you treat Dad.”

As if on cue, Will crawled in from the hallway, pacifier bobbing in his mouth exactly as Zoey had taught him over the past week. The pastel yellow onesie clung like a joke stretched too far—cartoon ducks, snap buttons at the ankles. He said nothing. Just waited.

Peggy said nothing either. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was dense, tense, inevitable.

Then she picked up the water and took a sip.

“This starts today?” she asked quietly.

Zoey didn’t blink. “You let it happen to him,” she said, flat and factual. “You watched. You encouraged it. Now it’s your turn.”

She stood, walked to the counter, and returned with two bowls of Cheerios.

One she set in front of Will—full of milk, spoon included.

The other went to Peggy. Dry. No spoon.

Zoey sat back down and began feeding Will slow, measured bites, focused entirely on him. She didn’t look at Peggy. Didn’t explain. Didn’t justify.

Peggy stared at the bowl. Then, slowly and deliberately, she pushed back her chair and stood.

Without lifting her gaze, Zoey said, “Sit back down.”

Peggy froze.

“If you complain, the rate of change increases.”

Peggy’s jaw tensed. She hadn’t expected the rules to be so precise. So rehearsed. So hers—turned against her. A distorted echo of the systems she’d once implemented with clinical detachment.

She sat.

Her fingers hovered over the bowl.

“Use your hands,” Zoey added, tone light but firm, still not looking at her. “You didn’t earn a spoon today.”

Peggy didn’t respond. She reached down, picked up a dry Cheerio between thumb and index finger, and ate it.

Across the table, Will opened his mouth for another bite, pacifier resting quietly against his chest. Zoey rewarded him with a smile and another spoonful.

The imbalance was deliberate. Ritualized. And it was working.

“We need to get the supplies before I start,” Zoey said after a few minutes. “I want everything ready.”

When she finished feeding Will and carefully wiping him down, Zoey turned to Peggy, who hadn’t yet finished her dry Cheerios.

The bowl in front of Peggy sat there with no spoon—just scattered cereal and her hands hovering uncertainly above it.

Peggy hesitated, then slowly reached down and picked up a handful of Cheerios with her fingers. The motion was awkward, deliberate—an unspoken admission of the rules she now had to follow.

Without missing a beat, Zoey wiped Peggy’s hands with the same cloth she’d just used on Will.

Peggy flinched but said nothing.

Peggy opened her mouth—then closed it.

Will shuffled to his feet, bleary-eyed, backlit by hallway light like a man returning from the front lines of a dream he never enlisted in. He didn’t look at anyone. The pacifier hung limp against his chest.

Zoey gave a small gesture toward the door. “Let’s go. Supplies won’t buy themselves.”

And just like that, the power dynamic in the Williams household shifted again: Zoey leading, Will trailing behind like a compliant toddler, and Peggy—attorney, executive, strategist—left standing at the edge of her own authority, quietly realizing how fragile control can be when it’s handed off, even for a moment.

She grabbed her keys and followed her daughter out the door.

Car Ride

Zoey took the keys from Peggy’s hand before she could even reach for the door, the gesture small but unmistakably decisive. Without a word, she opened the passenger door and gestured for Peggy to sit. Will shuffled silently to the back seat, pacifier bobbing with each breath, and climbed in without protest.

Zoey followed and carefully buckled Will into his car seat, her movements deliberate and unhurried, as if this simple act was another step in establishing the new order.

As Peggy settled into the passenger seat, her fingers instinctively reached into her bag – pulling out her phone.

Before she could unlock it, Zoey’s hand shot out, smoothly taking the phone from her.

“I’m holding this,” Zoey said, voice calm but firm.

Peggy blinked, caught off guard.

“Rules for today,” Zoey explained. “You’re not an adult, but you’re not a child either. You’re... somewhere in between.”

Peggy’s eyes narrowed, searching for clarity.

“You follow my lead. No distractions. No negotiations. Just listen.”

The weight of those words settled like a stone in Peggy’s stomach. She, who once commanded boardrooms and shaped deals, was now being disarmed by her own daughter.

Zoey glanced ahead, hands on the wheel, calm and resolute.

And just like that, the rules were set—and Peggy was playing by Zoey’s terms.

Target Practice

At the store, Zoey stepped forward and gently but firmly took Peggy’s purse from her hands.

“Little girls don’t have purses,” Zoey said flatly.

Peggy’s eyes flickered with surprise—and maybe a flicker of protest—but she didn’t argue. Her fingers lingered on the strap a moment longer, as if releasing a small tether to normalcy.

Zoey handed Peggy the shopping cart without hesitation. “Hold onto it. The entire time. No wandering.”

Peggy nodded silently, gripping the cart’s handle like a lifeline.

Zoey then buckled Will into the oversized child-friendly seat. The pacifier bobbed rhythmically with each breath, his soft pastel onesie riding up as he squirmed. Without warning, Will’s hand darted down, grasping at his diaper, followed by a high-pitched squeal—a sudden burst of toddler chaos that cut through the otherwise orderly scene.

Heads turned. Some shoppers cast curious glances; others quickly looked away, pretending not to notice.

They moved on, navigating the aisles with deliberate purpose. 

They moved on through the aisles. When they reached the feminine care section, Peggy shifted her hand off the cart to grab a box.

Zoey noticed immediately. “Hand back,” she said, low and even.

Peggy’s hand returned to the handle, and she awkwardly used her other hand to reach for what she needed, balancing the act of personal necessity and enforced obedience.

Next came the clothing aisle, where Zoey picked out the most childish dresses—soft fabrics, pastel colors, frills and ruffles—deliberately infantilizing choices that made Peggy flush with reluctant acceptance.

Peggy’s lips pressed together tightly.

Two shoppers paused near a display of kitchen towels. One raised an eyebrow. The other quickly averted her gaze.

Zoey browsed with precision, no hesitation. She pulled a soft pink dress off the rack—frilled lace collar, puffed sleeves, cartoon unicorn embroidered at the hem—and held it up with quiet satisfaction. Then came another, baby blue with yellow bows, short enough it couldn’t have been meant for anyone trying to be taken seriously.

Peggy’s face flushed, a sound catching in her throat. “Zoey—”

Zoey looked at her like a teacher catching a student mid-whine.

“Complaints mean the thumb,” she said, with edge.

Peggy hesitated. Her mouth closed.

Zoey didn’t move.

The silence stretched like wire.

They arrived at the toys section. Zoey threw the bright bright pink plastic purse, the kind meant for toddlers, complete with glittery hearts and a plastic clasp into the cart.

At checkout Zoey gave her mom the toy purse,  

Potty break 

They slid into the car. Peggy climbed into the front passenger seat, clutching the glittery plastic purse awkwardly, her thumb still pressed firmly in her mouth. She avoided Zoey’s eyes, staring instead at the dashboard, her small hands trembling slightly.

Will was strapped into the back, squirming against his seat. Just as Zoey settled behind the wheel and started the engine, a high-pitched, urgent voice piped up from the backseat.

“I done potty!” Will announced proudly through his pacifier.

Zoey’s jaw tightened. Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching Will’s flushed face and triumphant grin. A slow exhale escaped her lips. Of all the moments.

“Let’s go,” she said curtly, steering toward the nearest exit.

At the Target family bathroom, Zoey didn’t waste a second. “I need to use the restroom. You change him,” she ordered, voice sharp but controlled. “No mess. No fuss.”

Peggy stood rigidly beside her, thumb still lodged in her mouth, clutching the toy purse so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Oh, right,” Zoey said, nodding to Peggy. “You need both hands.” She peeled the pacifier from Will’s mouth and handed it to Peggy. Instinctively, Will’s thumb slid in to replace it.

Peggy blinked, momentarily frozen—unsure what to do next—as she took the pacifier, her movements automatic and hesitant, like a child trying to imitate an adult.

She began to clean Will with mechanical precision, as if he were nothing more than a toddler.

Once Will was changed, Zoey turned her sharp gaze to Peggy.

“Your turn,” she said, voice low and firm.

Peggy swallowed hard, eyes wide and uncertain.

“I don’t need to go,” she whispered,behind the pacifier.

Zoey’s expression hardened. “You’ll go. No exceptions.”

Peggy’s fingers tightened around the glitter purse..

Zoey led her toward the restroom stall, each step echoing with silent authority.

Inside the cramped restroom stall, the fluorescent light flickered faintly overhead. Zoey closed the door behind them with a definitive click that sounded like a verdict.

Peggy stood stiffly, the pacifier nestled firmly between her lips, her fingers gripping the glittery purse so tightly her knuckles were pale.

Zoey didn’t rush. She leaned against the cool metal door, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Peggy with a quiet, unyielding intensity.

“You go now,” Zoey said firmly, voice low but absolute.

Peggy’s eyes widened behind the pacifier. She shook her head slightly, her small voice muffled but clear. “I don’t have to.”

Zoey’s gaze sharpened, unwavering. “You do. No exceptions.”

A tense silence stretched between them, thick as the sterile air.

Peggy’s cheeks flushed deep crimson. Slowly, reluctantly, she shifted closer to the toilet, her body stiff and hesitant. The pacifier bobbed gently as she swallowed, her fingers tightening around the toy purse for balance.

Minutes passed. The soft rustle of clothing and the faint sounds of the store beyond were the only interruptions.

When Zoey finally spoke, her voice was calm but firm. “Done?”

Peggy nodded slightly, eyes cast downward.

Zoey pulled back the stall door just enough to slide in a pack of baby wipes. Without waiting, she began to clean Peggy with swift, efficient motions—wiping away the mess with a care that was more clinical than maternal.

Peggy’s thumb twitched near the pacifier as she stood stiffly, cheeks burning with humiliation.

Zoey’s voice was clipped. “No mess. We leave nothing behind.”

Peggy’s fingers loosened their grip on the purse, but her posture remained tense, her humiliation palpable.

Zoey finished, snapped the wipe pack shut, and gave Peggy a hard look. “Get dressed. We’re done here.”

Peggy nodded silently, the pacifier bobbing as she obediently wiped her eyes before pulling up her clothes.

 

Back home it’s dinner time 

Max came back from his weekend sleepover just as Zoey was settling Peggy and Will down for dinner. He barely glanced at the scene—two grown adults reduced to toddlers, pacifiers and all—and simply shrugged, uninterested and unimpressed. He didn’t question Zoey’s control; it wasn’t his battle.

Dinner was a messy affair. Zoey fed Will first, scooping soft food onto the spoon and bringing it to his mouth. Without cleaning the spoon, she immediately fed Peggy the next bite, repeating the cycle. Bits of pureed food quickly smeared across their cheeks, chins, and even their clothes. By the end, both were covered in sticky splatters, their hands and faces far from clean.

Will knew the drill—thumb in, arm raised—and Zoey wiped him down with practiced ease. Peggy was still learning, her thumb resting tentatively between her lips as Zoey gently cleaned her.

Afterward, they moved to the guest room for storytime. The book was unmistakably babyish—large, colorful pictures, simple words, and gentle rhymes. Zoey’s voice dropped to a soothing, sing-song rhythm as she replaced the characters’ names with “Mommy” and “Addy,” weaving a tale of naps, cuddles, and baby games.

Peggy listened quietly, thumb still nestled between her lips, though she hadn’t yet surrendered to sleep.

When the story ended, Zoey helped Peggy off the floor and guided her to the master bedroom, settling her gently onto the bed.

With precise clicks, Zoey locked both the guest room and master bedroom doors, sealing the quiet order of the evening.

[oadbl]

Monday – The House Reboots

The kitchen was bright with morning light, the scent of toast and coffee cutting through the quiet. Peggy moved like clockwork—lipstick in the microwave’s reflection, bag over her shoulder, keys in hand. Beside her, Zoey packed lunch with the precision of someone used to multitasking under pressure. Max trailed sleepily behind them, backpack half-zipped.

Will sat at the table in soft, footed pajamas patterned with dinosaurs. A sippy cup between his hands—he held it with both palms, sipping quietly as the family buzzed around him.

“Don’t forget your science folder, Max,” Peggy said, her voice clipped but gentle. “Zoey—your lunch is in the blue bag. The black one’s mine.”

“Got it,” Zoey replied, eyes on the clock. Then, after a pause: “You good with Dad today?”

Peggy hesitated. Just a beat. But it was enough to say everything.

“He’s used to the routine.”

Zoey kissed her mother’s cheek. Then, turning to Will, she brushed a crumb off his onesie collar, ruffling his hair in a motion that could’ve passed as either affection or discipline.

“Nap at noon. Be good, okay?”

Will gave a small nod.

“Okay, Zo-Zo.”

Max snorted. Zoey rolled her eyes, but didn’t correct him.

The door slammed as the kids left. Silence settled, thick and soft.

Peggy lingered by the counter, her coffee cooling in her hand. Will looked up at her, waiting—though for what, neither of them knew.

“You don’t have to keep… all this going,” she said.

“I know,” Will murmured.

But he didn’t move.

She stepped closer, straightened the strap of his onesie, flicked another crumb off his chest. It was a mother’s gesture, automatic and loaded.

“I need the adult version of you back, Will.”

He looked at her like a child trying to remember something that had slipped just out of reach.

“What if I’m not sure where he went?”

Peggy’s face didn’t change. She picked up her briefcase and headed for the door.

“Then start looking.”

She left. He stayed.

Tuesday – Sneaky Business

Peggy was on her third Zoom call of the morning, half-listening to a slide deck about cross-channel integration. Her coffee had gone lukewarm. Her notes were tidy, even if her brain wasn’t.

Buzz.
Back door camera: motion detected.

She tapped it without much thought.

And there he was: Will. Outside. Barefoot. Dinosaur onesie slightly askew. Sippy cup in one hand, the other carefully opening the deck box like it was a treasure chest.

Inside? The forbidden granola bars Zoey had declared off-limits. Will checked over his shoulder like a sitcom bandit, then reached in with exaggerated sneakiness.

Peggy smiled.

PEGGY: Sweep the porch. Then you can have it. No snack theft before chores.
And don’t test Zoey. She has a chart now.

Twenty minutes later: ping.

Camera showed Will sweeping the porch with all the energy of a kid doing the bare minimum. The sippy cup now tucked safely under one arm like a beloved plushie.

That evening, Peggy walked in to find Will curled up on the floor, blanket half-on, remote nowhere in sight. The couch? Spotless. He’d vacuumed around it, but still hadn’t earned back sitting rights.

She gave him a quick glance.

“Well, at least someone respects upholstery boundaries.”

Will smiled up at her sleepily. No argument.

At dinner, while Max inhaled spaghetti and Zoey scrolled through her phone, Peggy said, “Heads up—I’m flying out early tomorrow. Back late Thursday. Zoey’s in charge.”

Max grinned. “Can I have soda?”

“Sure.”

Will glanced up, hopeful.

“Nope,” Zoey said instantly. “Still on juice.”

Will pouted. Zoey raised an eyebrow.

“You want to lose sticker privileges, mister?”

Peggy barely kept a straight face as she sipped her wine.

Later, just after 8:00, she heard Zoey down the hall:

“Daddy, bedtime!”

Will didn’t even grumble. Just shuffled along, feet soft on the hardwood, sippy still in hand.

Wednesday – Distance

Peggy left before sunrise, travel mug in hand, coat collar pulled high against the wind. The summit was held at a glass-and-chrome hotel downtown. The presentations were polished, the lighting unforgiving, the pace relentless.

But even in the middle of a five-person panel on global logistics, her mind drifted.

Her phone vibrated in her lap.

ZOEY: He asked for soda. I gave him apple juice in a bottle. He pouted.
New rule: no whining.

Peggy exhaled softly through her nose.

ZOEY (2nd msg): He didn’t even argue.

There was a strange stillness in that. A quietness too complete.

That night, waiting outside for her rideshare, she called home.

Will answered on the second ring. His voice was soft, maybe tired. In the background, she could hear the faint tinkle of a lullaby drifting from a speaker.

“Hey,” she said, smoothing her hair back. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Will said. “Zoey made grilled cheese. I helped.”

A pause - she could hear the pacifier between his lips. 

“Did you eat on the floor again?”

“Yeah. Couch is still off-limits. I didn’t finish vacuuming.”

Another pause. Not awkward—just hollow.

“Okay,” Peggy said. “Goodnight, Will.”

“’Night, Peg.”

She hung up just as her car pulled up. As she climbed in, she spotted a family crossing the sidewalk—two parents, one toddler, a stroller full of juice boxes and wet wipes.

Back at the hotel, Peggy kicked off her heels, dropped her blazer over a chair, and flopped back on the too-firm bed. The room hummed with hotel silence — distant elevators, a vent rattling. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, then tapped her phone again.

PEGGY (calling): Zoey.

“Hey,” Zoey answered, slightly breathless, probably halfway through her skincare routine or a TikTok scroll.

“You’re really giving him apple juice in a bottle?”

“Mom,” Zoey said, grinning audibly, “it was that or a tantrum. The bottle was the calmest option. Also, you should’ve seen how fast he grabbed it.”

Peggy laughed, an honest, open laugh — the kind that didn’t get much airtime in boardrooms.

“And he accepted the no-whining rule?”

“Like it was written in law. He even whispered ‘okay, sorry’ before I finished the sentence.”

Peggy sat up on the bed, unpinning her hair.

“Part of me wonders if you’re training a toddler or managing an employee.”

“Honestly? Same thing. “

“Well,” she said, “just don’t let him sweet-talk you into giving him soda tomorrow.”

“Too late. I added ‘no begging’ to the chart.”

Peggy snorted. “Good girl.”

“Night, Mom.”

“Night, Zo.”

Peggy lay back on the bed, eyes on the ceiling, the tiniest smile still curving at her lips.

This wasn’t the plan. Not the parenting plan, not the marriage plan, not the life plan.

But... weirdly, it was working.

Thursday – Shifts

By the time Peggy stepped through the front door, it was nearly ten. The house had that soft, lived-in quiet—TV murmuring in the background, dishes drying in the rack, the faint smell of grilled cheese still hanging in the air.

Zoey sat at the kitchen table in a hoodie, earbuds in, typing something with total focus. A half-drunk iced tea sat beside her laptop. Max was still up, buried in a blanket on the couch, eyes glued to a cartoon he was probably too old for, soda in hand like a trophy.

Peggy toed off her heels and padded down the hall.

Will was already in bed.

Not in pajamas—in his cloud-print onesie, zipped up snug, only the top of his hair visible above a cartoon pillow. From the cracked door came the quiet, unmistakable sound of gentle white noise and the faintest crinkle of pull-ups under blankets.

Peggy paused just outside.

Taped to the wall was something new: a sticker chart. Full classroom vibes—bright colors, columns for each day of the week, rows labeled in Zoey’s bold handwriting:

• Chores

• Quiet Time

• No Whining

• Good Listening

• Bedtime

• Floor Sitting (No Complaints)
   

It was... extensive.

Tiny, glittery stars sparkled in neat little lines. One box had a dinosaur sticker. Another, a neon pink smiley face.

Peggy leaned in and squinted. One note next to a gold star read:

“Didn’t ask for the couch once. ⭐ Strong work!”

Another said:

“No whining all day – ⭐ Proud of you, buddy!”

A voice behind her: dry, casual, but proud.

“He kept forgetting stuff. This helps.”

Peggy turned to see Zoey leaning against the hallway wall, holding a bowl of cereal and a spoon like it was perfectly normal to be parenting your own dad before bed.

“He takes it seriously?” Peggy asked.

Zoey grinned. “You’d think he was earning airline miles.”

Peggy shook her head, but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.

Zoey took a bite of cereal, shrugged.

“Give him a bonus star for that.”

Zoey gave a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

As Peggy headed upstairs, she caught one last look at the chart, still glowing softly under the hallway light.

This wasn’t normal.

But it didn’t need to be.

It was working.

[oadbl]

Friday – 17:00 Sharp

At exactly 5:00 PM, Zoey stood by the front door, arms crossed, socks mismatched, phone in hand. Her expression was calm, unreadable—except for the raised eyebrow that meant: we had a deal.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

Peggy stepped inside, windblown and halfway through a Bluetooth call, laptop bag slung over one shoulder, travel coat flapping behind her. Her heels hit the tile—two sharp taps—and stopped.

Without a word, Zoey held out her hand.

Peggy hesitated. Just a beat too long.

“You’re late,” Zoey said, evenly. “And unless you want to start from where you ended up last Sunday night…”

Peggy sighed, ended the call, and placed the phone in Zoey’s palm. Then the laptop bag. Soft thump. She bent down and slipped off her heels.

Zoey didn’t smirk. She simply handed Peggy a scrunchie. 

“Hair, please.”

Peggy knelt, quietly obedient, and began splitting her hair into two uneven ponytails. Zoey watched, then nodded toward the kitchen.

“…I highly recommend you go set the table. Now.”

No protest. No resistance. Peggy padded barefoot to the kitchen, hair bobbing with each step.

Zoey trailed Peggy into the kitchen, grabbed a chair, and spun it around so she could sit on it backwards, arms draped over the top like she was the director of a school play.

“Freeze,” she said, just as Peggy reached for the plates.

Peggy paused, hands mid-air, eyes flicking over to her daughter.

Zoey pointed to the floor. “Sit.”

“On the tile?” Peggy blinked.

Zoey tilted her head. “Did you forget how this works already? But sure—ask again, and I’ll get you a booster seat too.”

Peggy let out a tiny groan, but sat down on the cold kitchen floor, legs crossed like she was at story time.

“Good girl,” Zoey said, digging in a drawer. She pulled out a faded pink brush, followed by two scrunchies that looked like they belonged in a kindergarten cubby.

With exaggerated care, she sat behind Peggy and started brushing out the pigtails her mom had tied in the hallway—too loose, too crooked.

“These are a mess,” Zoey mumbled. “You didn’t even try.”

“I did try,” Peggy muttered.

“Trying and pretending are not the same,” Zoey said, like she was quoting a teacher. “Hold still.”

Peggy did. She sat quietly while Zoey parted her hair down the middle and tied it off neatly with the pink scrunchies—pulling each one just tight enough to bounce.

“You’re lucky I still had these,” Zoey said, clearly pleased with her work.

“I’m lucky, huh?” Peggy said softly, her voice teasing but her face serious.

Zoey gave the second pigtail a proud tug. “Yup. All done. Now you don’t look like a mess.”

Peggy reached up and touched one elastic, eyes flicking upward to try to see them. “I feel like I’m ten.”

“You are ten,” Zoey reminded her, grinning. “Or do I need to start over from the baby rules?”

Peggy’s smile faltered just enough to give Zoey the answer she wanted.

“Good. Now,” Zoey said, getting up and handing over a short stack of plates, “set the table. Nicely. Forks on the left. No slouching. And use both hands.”

Peggy got up and started placing the plates, barefoot and quiet, her pigtails bouncing with every step.

Zoey leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching like a camp counselor during inspection.

After a moment, she gave a little nod. “Okay. That’s better. I’ll get the food.”

She pulled open the fridge like it was her kitchen—and honestly, by now, it kind of was.

“Max, Willy—dinner!” Zoey called, already tying her hair up as she set the last dish on the table.

Max thundered down the stairs, socks skidding on the floor like tires on a racetrack. Will appeared next, crawling more than walking, his oversized mall bear dragging behind him like a second shadow. His freshly washed dinosaur onesie puffed slightly at the cuffs, and a sippy cup dangled from his hand by the spout.

Zoey didn’t sit. She stood at the head of the table, hands on the back of her chair, waiting.

Everyone in place.

Peggy had already made her plate—nothing fancy, but enough to pass inspection. She’d also, out of habit, set a knife next to her fork.

Zoey didn’t say anything at first. She just cleared her throat.

Peggy froze mid-bite.

“House rules apply to both of you,” Zoey said lightly, but there was no question who she meant. She plucked the knife from Peggy’s hand like she was taking scissors from a toddler. “No knife.”

Peggy blinked down at her plate, then up at Zoey. There was a long pause. Then:

“…Could someone cut my food, please?”

Max snorted into his soda. “Oh my god.”

Zoey didn’t smirk, just nodded and calmly cut Peggy’s chicken into tidy, chewable squares. “See? Not that hard.”

She turned to Will, who was already poking at his carrots with both hands. Zoey sat beside him and started feeding him by spoon, one mouthful at a time.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” dabbing his chin.

Dinner eased into its natural rhythm. Forks scraped plates. Max asked for seconds. Will finished his carrots like a champ, earning a gold star and a triumphant, “Good job, buddy,” from Zoey. He toddled off, bear dragging behind him, toward the den.

Peggy eyed the bread basket. One roll left.

She reached.

Zoey’s hand intercepted mid-air.

“Kitchen’s closed,” she said simply, then added, with a nod toward the hallway, “Go change into something more appropriate—I laid clothes on your bed.”

Peggy blinked. “Now?”

Zoey just looked at her.

Peggy sighed and stood, her pigtails bouncing slightly as she turned.

Max whispered dramatically into his soda can, before bursting into quiet laughter.

Zoey didn't smile, but there was the faintest twitch of amusement in her eyes as she collected the dishes. Peggy disappeared up the stairs, her footsteps slow, shoulders just slightly hunched.

And just like that, the house shifted. Friday night had officially begun.

The dishwasher hummed to life.

Zoey checked the clock, then raised her voice—clear and practiced:

“Five minutes to bedtime!”

Bedtime

Peggy appeared at the top of the stairs, still inexplicably dressed in her blouse, slacks, and cardigan—like she’d just stepped out of a quarterly earnings call instead of into bedtime.

Zoey glanced up from her checklist and blinked.

“Seriously?” she said, one brow raised. “Do I need to help you change?”

Peggy looked down at herself, opened her mouth to argue—then thought better of it. With a small sigh, she turned and trudged back down the hall.

“Guest room. Now,” Zoey added, already heading that way. “Will’s waiting.”

A few minutes later, the whole house had migrated into the guest room. Will was tucked into his blanket nest, thumb in mouth, oversized bear clutched under one arm. Peggy, now changed into a soft pastel sleep shirt and thick fuzzy socks, sat cross-legged on the carpet beside him. Her redone pigtails were still bouncy, slightly uneven. The cardigan was gone. So was the dignity.

Zoey sat at the edge of the bed with a glitter-covered picture book in her lap.

“Tonight’s story,” she announced, “is Bruno and the Big Feelings.”

Peggy blinked. “Oh, I used to read that to—”

“Shhh,” Zoey cut her off, already opening the book.

She read with practiced flair—funny voices, perfect timing, all the sound effects. Will giggled. Peggy stifled a yawn and a reluctant smile.

When the book closed with a gentle thump, Will was nearly asleep, his bear’s foot tucked under his chin.

Zoey stood. “Okay. Come on, Peg. You’re in my room tonight.”

Peggy followed without protest.

Zoey opened the door to her bedroom—neat, pink-lit, aggressively cozy. String lights framed the headboard, the desk was perfectly organized, and a lavender diffuser glowed faintly near the window. It looked less like a kid’s room and more like a sleepover curated by a highly competent fifteen-year-old with Pinterest access.

Zoey pulled down the twin-size blanket. “This is your bed,” she said. “And before you ask—yes, I’m taking the master.”

Peggy nodded sleepily, arms crossed over her chest like a kid at the nurse’s office. Her pastel nightshirt hung long over fuzzy socks. Her pigtails were still intact, if slightly lopsided.

Zoey stepped back, clipboard in hand.

“Weekend rules,” she announced, flipping a page like a briefing document.

Mommy's Official Weekend Rules

• Bedtime is 21:00 sharp. No delays. No negotiations.

• Electronics are surrendered. All devices turned in.

• No whining. Use words. Calm tone only.

• Couch privileges require permission. Ask first.

• Thumb-sucking is highly recommended.

• Max is now officially your senior. Respect rank.

• All requests must be polite. Bonus points for manners.

• Do not make me repeat these rules.
   

Zoey looked up from the clipboard.

“Questions?”

Peggy raised her hand halfway, then lowered it.

Zoey nodded once. “Acknowledged.”

She placed a full water bottle on the nightstand. “Consume this before morning.”

Then she pointed at the door. “This will remain locked until I give clearance.”

Zoey tilted her head.

“You brushed your teeth, right?”

Peggy nodded.

“With kid toothpaste?”

Peggy hesitated. “…No.”

Zoey raised her eyebrows. “That wasn’t a suggestion. Fix that tomorrow.”

She stepped closer, watching her mother like a counselor inspecting a bunk.

“Do you need me to check the water bottle before bed? Or can I trust you to drink it?”

“I can drink it.”

“That’s not what I asked. Can I trust you?”

A pause.

“…Yes.”

Zoey didn’t nod. She just watched her.

“Did you use the potty before lights out?”

Peggy’s voice barely registered. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

A small shrug. “I think so.”

Zoey stepped closer, now within arm’s reach. Her tone stayed flat, clinical.

“You’re wearing the pull-ups I left,” she said. Not a question.

Peggy blinked. “Yes,” she started, voice quiet.

Zoey didn’t move.

“Or should I check?”

A pause.

Peggy opened her mouth—then shut it.

Zoey took a step forward.

“Stand still.”

Peggy flinched but obeyed.

Without ceremony, Zoey lifted the hem of the sleep shirt—just enough to confirm. Just long enough to make the point.

She let the fabric drop.

“Good.”

“Into bed you go…”

Zoey turned slightly, voice even:

“And when you need the potty at night, what do you use?”

Peggy blinked, caught off guard.

“I—I don’t think I will.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Peggy lowered her gaze, voice barely above a whisper.

“…The pull-ups.”

Zoey nodded once, sharp.

“And who uses pull-ups?”

“Babies.”

“So you’re a…”

She let the statement hang.

Peggy shifted under the covers, uncomfortable.

Then, almost without thinking, her thumb slipped into her mouth.

Zoey said nothing. Didn’t smile. Didn’t soften.

She opened the door, stepped out into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Mommy.”

Click.

The lock turned.

In the dim glow of the room, Peggy lay still—thumb in mouth, silent.

Friday night. Locked down.

[oadbl]

Saturday — 06:52 AM

Peggy stirred beneath the soft pink blanket, eyes blinking open in the faint lavender glow of Zoey’s diffuser. For a moment, she was disoriented—comforted, even. Then the pieces snapped into place: the pastel walls, the glittery clipboard on the nightstand, and the faint plastic rustle at her waist.

She lifted the covers cautiously and peeked underneath.

Dry.

Her pull-up was dry.

A small, surprising wave of relief washed over her—ridiculous, really, but real. A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth.

Then—noise.

Laughter. The clink of dishes. The creak of Max’s chair downstairs. Will’s babbling giggle, unmistakable.

The house was awake.

She stood and padded to the door, more out of hope than expectation. She tried the handle anyway.

Locked. Of course.

She sighed and sat down gingerly at the edge of the bed, legs crossed, hands resting in her lap like a preschooler waiting for circle time.

From downstairs: more laughter. Something sizzling in a pan. A cupboard shutting. The scrape of chairs.

Zoey hadn’t forgotten. She was just... waiting.

Or testing.

Peggy shifted slightly. Her pull-up crinkled beneath the hem of her oversized sleep shirt. Her cheeks warmed.

By 8:30, the pressure in her bladder was building.

By 9:00, she was pacing the small bedroom in tight circles.

By 10:15, she was kneeling by the door, hand on the knob, biting her lip, legs locked together.

By 10:47, she had slid to the floor, back against the wall, too tired to fight it.

When it happened, it wasn’t dramatic. Just slow. Quiet. Inevitable.

The pull-up was no longer dry.

Saturday — 10:50 AM

Click.

The door swung open.

Peggy sat up a little straighter on the floor, legs still folded, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes stayed fixed on the carpet as Zoey stepped inside.

“Morning,” Zoey said evenly, scanning the room like a camp counselor doing morning checks.

Peggy opened her mouth to answer, but her voice caught.

Zoey set the juice down on the dresser.

“Did you stay dry?”

Peggy hesitated.

“That’s not a trick question.”

“I did… at first—”

She didn’t get to finish.

Zoey had already closed the distance. Two fingers hooked under the hem of Peggy’s shirt. A gentle lift, just high enough to see.

No scolding. No surprise. Just a quiet sigh.

“I was really hoping you’d be in panties this morning,” Zoey said, almost to herself. “But I guess…”

She trailed off, letting the sentence float unfinished.

There was no judgment in her voice—just readjustment. Recalibration.

She clicked her pen against the clipboard, checked a box, and glanced at the clock.

“You’ve got about ten minutes before the kitchen closes,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Then she turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind her.

Peggy stayed there a moment longer, her fingers brushing the edge of the soft rug.

Then she stood, the quiet crinkle of her pull-up loud in the silence.

She followed.

Breakfast for 1 

Peggy padded into the kitchen, the morning light pooling soft across the tile. Her gray cotton t-shirt—faded stars clinging to thin fabric—hung low, brushing the waistband of her shorts. The faint bulge of her pull-up showed each time she shifted.

She moved like someone trying not to disturb the air around her, already shrinking inside herself before Zoey even looked up.

Zoey was already seated.

Directly across from Peggy’s usual spot. Coffee in hand. No clipboard. Just watching.

Not speaking. Not smiling.

Peggy lowered her gaze to the plate in front of her.

Waffle, already cut into neat squares, soaked through with syrup. A scoop of sliced banana. A purple-lidded sippy cup filled with milk, the top just slightly crooked.

“Did Will make this?” Peggy asked, voice small and tentative.

Zoey didn’t answer.

Peggy reached for a piece of waffle with her fingers. It was too slick. Syrup slid down her chin and onto her shirt with the first bite. She chewed slowly, sticky and sweet, the mess marking her—exposing her.

She tried to grip a bit of banana next, but her fingers were already coated in syrup. It slipped from her hand and flopped back onto the plate.

Still nothing from Zoey.

Silence thickened, pressing down like a weight.

Then—

Tap.

Zoey set her coffee mug down on the table with quiet authority. The sound was soft but sharp—a punctuation that echoed louder than any words.

Peggy flinched, her chest tightening.

She didn’t dare look up as Zoey rose, the chair scraping softly. The footsteps behind her were slow. Calm. Measured.

Before Peggy could even react, Zoey pressed against her back, pushing her fully into the chair, forcing her to curve forward, utterly contained.

A hand slid into Peggy’s sightline: a fork mashed a piece of the banana before loading it on. Hovered… 

Peggy stayed still.

The fork tipped. The banana missed—plopping onto her thigh with a squelch.

Heat rose in Peggy’s chest, crawling up her neck. The syrup on her shirt, the banana on her leg—it all marked her. Not just messy. Reduced.

Zoey gave no reaction.

Next bite: waffle. Too fast. It bounced off Peggy’s lip and hit the floor.

Still no voice. Just the fork. Again and again.

Then—softly, playfully:

“Here comes the airplane…”

Mashed banana. This time aimed straight.

Peggy opened her mouth, swallowing her pride.

The mush slid in, a tiny bit dripping down her chin. 

“Choo choo,” Zoey added, almost gently, as the next bite arrived before Peggy could finish chewing the first.

The rhythm picked up. Airplane. Train. Bite after bite.

Peggy shrank beneath it. Submission wasn’t asked of her—it was assumed. Expected. Survival.

She reached for her sippy cup.

“Both hands,” Zoey murmured behind her.

Peggy tried. But the cup slipped through her sticky fingers. Milk spilled across the tile in slow, white rivulets. She could feel it in her socks. 

She froze.

Zoey continued feeding her. The rhythm picked up yet again - Airplane. Train. Bite after bite.

When the plate was cleaned, Zoey didn’t say a word. She simply bent down, picked up the cup, wiped it off, and without a word, disappeared around the corner.

Peggy stayed still, too scared to move, her heart pounding loud in the sudden quiet.

Then—

“Look at me, Mommy,” Zoey stated behind her, soft but firm.

Before Peggy could react, Zoey reached around, firmly tilting Peggy’s head back.

Before Peggy could turn, Zoey’s hand curled under her chin, tilting her head back.

The bottle was already sliding into Peggy’s mouth before her head was fully tilted.

Warm, chalky Similac filled her mouth. Peggy didn’t recognize the taste; too sweet for milk; too thick for just sugar or honey. 

“Good girl,” Zoey cooed, slow and sing-song, “Drink nice and slow, my widdle Mommy.”

Peggy’s cheeks flushed, the words both humiliating and oddly soothing.

Zoey’s tone shifted, teasing but soft. “This weekend, you get another try at being a big girl. But Zoey already knows you won’t succeed.” 

Peggy’s throat tightened. 

The baby talk wrapped around Peggy like a cage—soft, tight, inescapable.

Warm Similac slid down her throat, but it was the crushing weight of helplessness—and Zoey’s voice—that filled her completely.

The baby bottle pressed gently to her lips was proof.

She was the lesson. And Zoey was the teacher now.

“Good girl,” Zoey cooed softly, voice lilting in that slow, sing-song way, “drink your milky nice and slow… yes, that’s my big Mommy.” The soft hiss of air escaping the bottle filled the silence.

Peggy’s cheeks burned. The words felt like a weight pressing down.

Will had already crawled back into the kitchen and watched it all unfold.

“clean-up position”, Zoey said when she finished feeding her the bottle. 

Like a sleeper agent Will put his hands up, his pacifier dangling from his mouth. 

Peggy hesitated, not sure what to do, then followed – arms up, unsure.

Zoey coughed, and Peggy understood something wasn’t right, then she remembered - If I don’t have a pacifier, then I need… the thumb just slipped in there like it was second nature. 

As Zoey wiped her down, she said in a sing-song voice – “When we’re done, we’ll help mommy go poopy, wouldn’t we Willy. Yes we will, yes we will.” 

Zoey was better than her.

More controlled. More patient. More… certain.

Potty 

Peggy didn’t remember how she ended up on the floor.

One moment, Zoey was wiping her down—the thumb slipping into her mouth, the bottle taken away. 

The next, she felt Zoey’s hands gently but firmly pressing her backward. Down, down onto the cool tile. curled on the kitchen tile, spine bowed, legs pulled in—a near fetal curl. 

She didn’t resist.

Couldn’t.

Zoey crouched beside her, calm and controlled. Not a word wasted, not a breath uncertain. Her presence settled over Peggy like a weighted blanket—warm, heavy, inescapable.

Then Zoey lifted her legs—knees bent, ankles gripped with steady confidence. The pull-up sagged between her thighs, cartoon prints faintly creased and damp.

As though this was all nature, she heard… 

“The wheels on the bus go round and round…”

Zoey began to sing.

Quiet. Light. As if it were any other morning, as if they were simply playing, and Peggy was an infant. 

She pedaled Peggy’s legs in slow circles, her touch neither rough nor teasing—just steady. Just certain.

“…round and round…”

The motion felt absurd. Infantilizing. And yet—Peggy couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t even interrupt it. Her body moved because Zoey willed it so.

Peggy couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look at Will, wherever he was. She focused on the light above, as if pretending none of this was real would make it stop.

Her thumb hovered in her mouth. 

“…round and round…”

The rhythm didn’t falter. Zoey’s grip remained unwavering.

Then—

“Look at me.” Zoey didn’t ask, she commanded. 

Peggy’s eyes darted toward the ceiling, the corner—anything but Zoey’s steady gaze.

“Now.”

Zoey’s tone didn’t rise, but the air around them sharpened.

Peggy moved to a crunch position, met Zoey’s gaze. Steady. Calm. Entirely in control.

“…all through the town.”

The song continued like nothing had shifted, though everything had.

Peggy stared at her. Too afraid look away.

Her legs still moved. The pressure of her knees against her chest grew firmer. Her belly, already tight, churned.

“Sing, Mommy,” Zoey said, firmly.

Peggy blinked, confused.

Zoey didn’t repeat herself.

She simply continued pedaling her legs. The song rolled on.

“All through the town…”

Peggy whimpered.

Peggy closed her eyes tight, and—thumb still lodged between her lips—she mumbled the next line along with Zoey.

“The wheels… on the bus…” she whispered around her thumb.

“Louder,” Zoey cooed.

Peggy’s voice shook. Every word came out syrup-thick and broken.

“Go… round… and round…”

Each verse hit her stomach like a slow churn. Her legs kept circling. Her body no longer hers.

“Round and round…”

Suddenly, A fart slipped out.  Embarrassingly loud in the kitchen stillness.

Peggy froze. Thumb still in mouth. Maybe if she won’t be here... 

Zoey didn’t pause. Her voice gilded forward, gentle and unbothered.

“Eyes open” Zoey said, as she continued to sing “All through the town…”

Peggy shook her head, but her hips bucked. Her belly was cramped.

Another fart—longer this time. Zoey nodded in rhythm, hands steady.

“Sing it, Mommy.”

Peggy did. She couldn’t stop. Each line of the nursery rhyme chipped away another piece of her pride.

“The w-wipers on the bus… go swish, swish, swish…”

Another loud release escaped her. The humiliation wrapped around her like a smothering blanket.

“All through… the town…”

Zoey slowed her hands. Stilled them.

She looked down at Peggy, who was red-faced, trembling, thumb still lodged firmly between her lips.

Zoey pressed her knees in again, firmly a few times until the farts stopped. 

Peggy knew what Zoey just did. She never felt smaller, so out of control of her body. 

As she pressed her knees to her stomach, one last time,   she said –“There you go, baby,” her voice low and proud. “That’s what I needed.”

She gently lowered Peggy’s legs to the floor again.

Then held out her hand.

“Time to go potty, Mommy.”

Peggy blinked at her through tears. Her body didn’t feel like hers. Her voice didn’t feel like hers.

She rose slowly, pull-up sagging heavily between her legs, every step echoing her helplessness.

The song still hummed in her head. The rhythm wouldn’t stop.

Neither would Zoey.

She didn’t ask where they were going. She didn’t look up. She let Zoey guide her, one warm hand on the small of her back.

The bathroom was only a few feet away, but it felt like a walk of shame stretched over miles.

At the threshold, Zoey crouched and peeled the pull-up down Peggy’s thighs. It slumped to the tile with a wet, sickly sound.

“Step out,” Zoey said gently.

Peggy obeyed. She stepped free, toes curled against the cold floor.

Then she turned—automatically, without thinking—and bent slightly forward, her hand braced on her knees, the other one had its thumb in her mouth. 

Zoey didn’t say anything. She just reached for the wipes.

The first touch was cold. The second, firmer. Unapologetic. Zoey wiped slowly, methodically. Like she was cleaning a child. No hesitation, no rush.

Peggy squeezed her eyes shut. Her cheeks burned. She could feel the shame crawling up her spine, pooling at the base of her skull.

Then her eyes flicked toward the hallway—just beyond the bathroom door.

And her stomach dropped.

The door. The door was still open. Wide.

Her heart stuttered. Could someone walk by and see her? Have they walked by already and she hasn’t noticed? 

Zoey followed her gaze, then reached past her to calmly shut the door.

But it was too late. The privacy she craved hadn’t been there when it mattered.

Peggy bit down on her thumb, her eyes glassy with fresh tears.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Zoey said, voice low but clear.

Peggy hesitated.

“I said—look.”

It wasn’t loud, but something in it made Peggy obey.

Her gaze lifted. Met Zoey’s.

Zoey smiled, calm as ever, like this was all perfectly normal. Like it was expected.

“There we go,” she cooed. “Gotta keep you nice and clean, don’t we?”

Another wipe. This one, slower. More thorough.

Peggy’s lip trembled, but she didn’t look away.

“That’s my good girl. Just making sure there’s no mess hiding back here. Can’t have little ones sitting in a dirty tushy, can we?”

Peggy swallowed hard. 

The last wipe fell into the bin with a soft rustle.

Zoey stood, brushing her hands lightly.

Then she reached into the drawer.

“No more pull-ups,” she said simply. “Looks like we’re going back to diapers.”

Peggy’s stomach dropped. She shook her head before she could stop herself. A tiny, pathetic protest.

Zoey just smiled, calm and knowing.

“Babies don’t wear pull-ups, anyway. Not when they can’t keep them clean.”

She shook out the diaper with a soft crinkle.

Peggy’s knees almost buckled.

Zoey patted the counter. “Down.”

Peggy didn’t move.

Zoey waited 

That did it.

Red-faced, Peggy climbed down—awkward, shaky. She laid back as Zoey guided her down.

Zoey sat on the closed toilet 

“There we go,” Zoey sang, like she was soothing a fussy baby. “One little Mommy who made a big stinky mess. But we’re all clean now, aren’t we?”

She said, with a final wipe before tapping Peggy shut. 

The diaper slid under her.

Peggy stared at the ceiling.

Zoey sprinkled powder—cool, soft, smelling faintly of lavender.

Then came the snug tug of the front panel, pulled tight across her belly. The firm press of tape against tape.

Sealed in.

“There,” Zoey said, brushing her hands off. “All nice and dry. Just like you should’ve been in the first place.”

She leaned down and tapped Peggy’s nose.

“Now you’re all ready to start your day.”

Peggy didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

Not with the thickness between her legs. Not with Zoey still smiling down at her like she was something small, helpless, and entirely hers.

And worst of all—

Not with the faintest part of her wondering if she'd ever be anything else again.

As Zoey helped Peggy up, hereyes drifted to Peggy’s fingers, inspecting them like they belonged to a toddler caught in a secret mess.

“You really thought no one would notice?” Zoey murmured, her voice feather-light, teasing.

Peggy blinked, cheeks burning hotter.

The chipped red polish on her nails, from the Tokyo trip, caught the light—loud, juvenile. 

Now it looked absurd. Childish in all the wrong ways.

Zoey opened the drawer. Nail polish remover. Cotton pad.

She held Peggy’s hand and began wiping.

Press. Turn. Wipe again.

Then the clippers.

“Time for a trim,” Zoey murmured.

Click. Click.

Each snip was a closing door.

“You don’t need this,” she said gently. “Not until you can keep your diapers dry. Right now… we’re starting fresh.”

Getting Ready 

The bedroom was quiet, the window open, letting sunlight and fresh air spill in. The curtains stirred gently in the breeze, casting soft shapes across the floor.

Peggy stood in the corner, facing the wall. Thumb in her mouth, her other hand held in the air—just as Zoey had told her. Her bare skin prickled in the morning chill, but she didn’t move.

Behind her, Zoey moved with a steady, deliberate rhythm. Drawers slid open and closed. Hangers clicked softly. Fabric rustled. Each sound marked a decision made with purpose. Peggy didn’t need to look to know what was being chosen. They’d picked the clothes out together at Target the previous weekend—though “together” had mostly meant Zoey choosing while Peggy blushed and nodded.

“Come here,” Zoey said.

Peggy turned and walked slowly toward the bed. The outfit was already laid out: a baby-pink t-shirt with a smiling unicorn across the front, and lavender cotton overalls with pastel buttons. The scene felt rehearsed—ritualized—but that didn’t make it any less real.

Zoey sat on the edge of the bed, calm and expectant. Her posture said everything: Peggy was to stand in front of her, to wait. Just like a little one getting dressed for the day.

There was no underwear waiting for her. Not today. Not after the accident.

The diaper between her thighs was fresh but unmistakable, the padded bulk making her steps slightly wider, more hesitant. It crinkled faintly as she walked—a soft but constant reminder of the trust she’d lost.

“You want your underwear back tomorrow?” Zoey asked, her voice calm. Almost kind.

Peggy nodded, thumb still tucked in her mouth.

Zoey raised an eyebrow. “Arms up,” she said softly. Then, reaching out with a practiced patience, she gently pulled Peggy’s thumb free from her mouth. A thin line of drool glistened at the corner as Peggy’s lips parted reluctantly.

“Big girls don’t suck their thumb,” Zoey added, her tone gentle but firm.

The words landed softly, but with weight—like Zoey still believed Peggy could be a grown-up, even as she dressed her like anything but.

Zoey dressed her with practiced ease. The unicorn shirt came first, tugged gently over Peggy’s head and smoothed down across her torso. Then the overalls—Zoey guided her arms through the straps and reached around to fasten the pastel buttons, one by one, high up between Peggy’s shoulder blades.

The closures were placed just out of reach—deliberately so. Peggy wouldn’t be getting them off on her own. That had been obvious even in the store. They’d picked the outfit out together at Target—but that had mostly meant Zoey deciding while Peggy stood by, thumb in her mouth, gripping the cart, too scared to wander even a step away.

The soft cotton fit comfortably, but it did nothing to hide the padding beneath. If anything, it made the bulk feel more obvious. Peggy shifted slightly on her feet, the movement automatic, like she could somehow make it disappear. She couldn’t.

Zoey stepped back, brushing Peggy’s hair behind her ear. The gesture was gentle, almost tender—more motherly than disciplinary.

Then, as she gave the final button a small pat, Zoey smiled. Her voice slipped into a singsong lilt—teasing, faintly cruel.
“Let’s see… we had breakfast, we went poopies, we got dressed…”

The childish word hung in the air like syrup—sticky and slow and impossible to ignore. Peggy’s face flushed hot. She could still smell the faint, lingering trace of her accident beneath the clean scent of powder. Not strong. Just there. Enough to make her chest tighten.

Her thumb twitched at her side, aching to rise. She wanted it—needed comfort—but she didn’t dare. Not with tomorrow’s underwear hanging in the balance.

Zoey let the silence stretch, her gaze unreadable. Like she knew. Maybe she did.

Then, more evenly: “You look ready.”

Then her tone shifted, just enough. Firmer. Cooler. “Here’s what happens next. You go get your list from the kitchen. You finish every item by noon. No whining. No shortcuts. And you come to me when you need to go potty. Clear?”

Peggy nodded.

Zoey moved to the door, placing one hand on the frame. She paused before exiting, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Oh—and if that meeting on Monday was really that important,” she said, voice cool, “you would’ve told me by now. Right?”

Peggy flinched—barely, but enough to betray herself. Her stomach twisted, a sharp pang of shame making her wish the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

 

Mommy’s Activities

Written in big, bubbly letters, Peggy found the laminated page with her tasks for the day:

☐ Make your bed nice and neat (don’t forget to smooth the pillows!)
☐ Wipe down the kitchen table, cleaning up the mess you made (all the crumbs, please!)
☐ Practice your handwriting: copy “I am not in charge. Zoey is, and she knows best.” 15 times — nice and neat!

The sheets were still tangled from earlier, blankets bunched near the foot. Peggy smoothed them flat, carefully tucking the corners with both hands, then patted the pillows gently—almost shyly. It felt as though Zoey was watching, even when she wasn’t.

She knocked softly on the door and waited.

No answer.

Peggy shifted uncomfortably, then lowered herself to the floor, sitting cross-legged, her diaper cracking with every move, her thumb creeping toward her mouth.

Finally, the door cracked open.

Zoey’s sharp, cold eyes peeked through, sizing her up with an unyielding gaze. “Something wrong?”

“My bed,” Peggy whispered. “I finished. I wanted you to see.”

Zoey gave a curt nod. “Alright. Give me ten minutes. I’m with Will.”

Peggy crawled into the room, there was no point in taking those two steps in. 

In the room, Zoey attended to Will with brisk efficiency. Her movements were clinical, stripped of any warmth or teasing. The daughter who commanded them both was all business here—silent and in control.

Every time Peggy’s thumb twitched toward her mouth as she watched, Zoey’s voice cut through the quiet: “Big girls don’t suck their thumb.”

This was the first time Peggy had truly seen her husband reduced like this—pacifier tucked between his lips, diapered and helpless as Zoey forced him to poop—utterly stripped of dignity. It was a stark mirror of herself, a raw reminder of just how completely Zoey controlled them both.

When they finished, Zoey strode ahead toward Peggy’s room—once her own—while Peggy and Will crawled quietly behind, their movements small and submissive.

Zoey stopped at the doorway, arms folded, her gaze piercing.

She crouched down, noticing a sock peeking from beneath the covers. Pulling it free unraveled the perfectly made bed.

Zoey straightened, eyes locked onto Peggy. “I thought you said you made your bed and cleaned your room.”

Her lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. “Don’t call me until it’s done right. You want a time out?”

Peggy swallowed hard, shaking her head, cheeks burning—not just from shame, but from the familiar comfort of her thumb drifting toward her mouth again.

The kitchen table still bore the evidence of Peggy’s messy breakfast.
Sticky syrup glazed the edges of the table, and a rogue slice of banana lay forgotten on the floor.

Crumbs scattered like tiny islands across the surface—reminders of bites missed and hands too clumsy.

A damp patch of spilled milk pooled on the tile, cold and spreading slowly.

Her stomach twisted as she took it all in—the mess was more than just physical clutter. It was a reflection of her shaky confidence, a silent accusation that she’d failed even at something as simple as breakfast.

Peggy reached for a damp cloth, fingers trembling slightly. She pressed down gently at first, wiping the sticky syrup in slow, deliberate circles. The cloth darkened with every pass, but she didn’t stop until the surface looked smooth and clean.

Carefully, she bent down to grab the banana slice from the floor, the smoosh already spreading, making the mess worse.

Her body was giving in—she needed the potty. She moved toward the bathroom, but the door was locked. Now where was Zoey?

Her hands were sticky and messy, making it impossible to do much herself. She sighed quietly, frustration creeping in as she returned to the kitchen table.

There, she gathered the crumbs with the cloth, brushing them into the trash with careful, slow motions.

Finally, she knelt by the tile, patting at the spilled milk. The cold seeped through her socks, making her shiver, but she worked methodically until the floor was dry.

When she finished, Peggy took a deep breath and glanced toward the hallway. The mess was gone—but the weight of having to clean it lingered, heavy and unavoidable.

Zoey appeared then, her presence sudden and firm.

“I need the potty,” Peggy said, beginning to dance nervously in place.

Zoey led Peggy to the bathroom with a firm grip on her wrist, guiding her like a toddler more than a grown woman.

Peggy’s heart hammered in her chest as Zoey gently helped her lie down on the cool bathroom floor, the stark tiles pressing against her back.

She felt small—helpless and exposed—like a child too young to manage her own body.

Zoey’s hands were steady but commanding as she carefully undid Peggy’s overalls and pulled away the damp diaper.

The air felt cold against Peggy’s skin, and she curled slightly, instinctively trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable.

Zoey’s eyes never left her face as she helped her sit up and settle onto the bright pink plastic potty—the same one Peggy had gifted Zoey years ago when she’d first learned how to use the potty herself.

The bright plastic felt oddly small and childish beneath her, a stark reminder of just how completely Zoey controlled even the smallest parts of her life.

Peggy settled carefully, cheeks burning, as Zoey sat on the closed toilet, watching with that same unyielding gaze.

When she was done, Zoey wiped her clean and fastened a fresh diaper around her with practiced ease. Her voice was soft but decisive.

“I think it’s just easier if we keep you in your diaper next time, sweetie,” Zoey said. “

Peggy blinked, shame washing over her in a hot, quiet wave. She didn’t argue.

Zoey stood, flushed the potty, and turned to wash her hands.

 

Peggy sat on the floor, her head just barely clearing the edge of the living room table. The paper in front of her looked far too big. The sentence at the top loomed like a command carved in stone:

I am just a baby. Zoey is in charge because she knows what’s best for me.

The pencil scratched softly—hesitantly—across the page.
Again. And again.
Each repetition chipped away at what little was left of her pride.

By the fifth line, her fingers were cramping. Her handwriting wobbled—too big on one line, too cramped on the next. It looked like it belonged to someone half her age.

The sound of the TV flicking on made her flinch. Max had come in without her noticing, plopping down on the couch like this was just any normal day.

The sound of the TV flicking on made her flinch.
Max had come in without her noticing, dropping onto the couch with the casual ease of someone completely at home. He grabbed the remote and leaned back like this was any other afternoon.

“I don’t think Zoey would be happy if you were watching TV,” Max said, his tone light, almost bored—as if he were reminding a much younger sibling of the house rules.

Peggy’s cheeks flushed hot.
She didn’t argue. Didn’t speak.
Instead, she quietly shifted to the far side of the table, turning her back to the screen—eyes down on the paper, like a scolded toddler avoiding temptation.

Max noticed. He sat forward slightly, picking up a thick purple crayon from the table.

“Also,” he said, holding it out to her, “the directions say to use a crayon with your non-dominant hand.”

Peggy stared at it for a second too long before taking it. Her fingers felt clumsy wrapped around the oversized wax stick.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

As she began to write again—slow, wobbly letters spelling out I am just a baby—her other hand drifted upward. Almost unconsciously, her thumb crept toward her mouth, brushing her lips, then pressing in.

She didn’t even realize she was sucking on it until Max glanced over and said, gently, “You know Zoey’s not going to let you wear big girl panties tomorrow if she sees that.”

Peggy froze. The crayon paused in her hand, her mouth suddenly aware of the warmth of her own thumb.

Slowly, with a quiet pop, she pulled it from her mouth. Her cheeks burned.

Max wasn’t mocking. His tone was matter-of-fact, like he was helping her stay on track.

“I—I forgot,” she mumbled.

He nodded, turning his attention back to the TV. “Just saying. She was really clear about that.”

Peggy nodded too, eyes returning to the paper.
Line after line, she wrote with her non-dominant hand—each crooked letter a quiet surrender. The taste of her thumb lingered on her lips, along with the growing pressure to prove she was ready for whatever “tomorrow” meant in Zoey’s eyes.

And the worst part?
She wasn’t sure she was.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she placed the crayon down. Her hand trembled. The paper was wrinkled and messy, her writing uneven and soft, but the sentence was there fifteen times—just as she'd been told.

Max reached forward, trailing one nail beneath the last line. He said nothing at first—just scanned the childish script with a calm, unreadable expression.

Then she gave a small nod.

“Good job,” he said, not unkindly. “Go show Zoey”

Peggy didn’t speak. She only nodded, small and quiet, her legs folded under the table, her heart still thudding in her chest.

 

Lunch 

Zoey stood at the counter, slicing through a thick, toasted ciabatta sandwich layered with prosciutto, arugula, fresh mozzarella, and tomato. Beside her, Max reached for his own plate—his sandwich identical, the presentation neat and grown-up, served with a side of kettle chips and a chilled sparkling water.

“I don’t see why we have to eat outside,” Max grumbled as he followed Zoey out the door. “It’s not like it’s a picnic.”

Zoey didn’t answer, already carrying the adult plates to a folding chair set nearby. On the way, she reached down and gently removed Will’s pacifier, tucking it into her pocket.

On the soft blanket spread across the grass, Peggy and Will sat cross-legged, their lunches arranged on small tray tables: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, crusts removed and cut into neat, bite-sized squares. Each portion was carefully placed on color-coded plates—Will’s blue, Peggy’s pink.

The contrast was clear—ceramic plates, chilled drinks, and neatly folded napkins in Zoey’s lap, separated by distance and decorum from Peggy and Will’s childlike setup.

Max settled beside Zoey, casually sipping his sparkling water. “You guys holding up okay down there?” he asked, glancing toward Peggy and Will.

Peggy’s cheeks flushed. She nodded quickly, eyes fixed on her plate.

Zoey’s voice was calm but firm. “Remember, keep your hands clean. No jelly on the blanket.”

Peggy shifted slightly, feeling the soft bulk of her diaper crinkle beneath her. She obediently reached for her napkin.

“Take slow bites,” Zoey added, locking her gaze on Peggy. “We don’t want any upset tummies.”

Peggy blinked, nodded again, and chewed more slowly as Zoey’s watchful eyes kept her steady.

When their sandwiches were finished, Zoey’s tone softened just enough to command obedience. “Now crawl over here, like babies.”

Peggy and Will exchanged a brief glance, then lowered themselves onto their hands and knees, crawling toward Zoey.

She shifted her chair closer, positioning herself so both of them were right in front of her.

From the table, Zoey picked up two bottles—one pink, one blue—filled with warm milk.

Holding a bottle in each hand, she tilted their heads up gently, forcing their eyes to meet hers as she guided the nipples into their mouths.

Peggy’s eyes fluttered as the warm milk filled her, the steady rhythm of suckling pulling at her will.

Zoey’s gaze remained steady, quiet but unyielding, as she fed them both simultaneously.

When the bottles were empty, Zoey removed them with practiced care and stood up, expecting the two to follow her crawling back toward the house.

“It’s nap time,” she said matter of factly.

Peggy and Will obeyed without hesitation, crawling after Zoey as the sun dipped lower over the front yard.

 

An Afternoon with a Babysitter 

The late afternoon sun filtered through the curtains as Eliza strode into Peggy’s room. Her shirt—black, with bold white letters reading “Don’t Start With Me, You Won’t Win”—set the tone before she even spoke. The edges of her presence cut through the sleepy haze like a razor.

She had been Zoey’s best friend since childhood—a permanent fixture in their lives. Unshakable. Loyal. And, to Peggy, utterly unwelcome.

Peggy had never liked her. Not once. Eliza had always been too intense, too possessive, too eager to insert herself into their family dynamic, as if she didn’t know where the line was… or didn’t care.

“Time to wake up,” she said, voice low and sharp—leaving no room for argument.

Peggy blinked up at her, heart tightening as Eliza’s eyes landed on the damp patch darkening her pajamas. Eliza didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften.

“You wet yourself again,” she said flatly—like a verdict. “Get up.”

She crossed the room and sat at the edge of the bed—rigid, confident, immovable. Peggy’s cheeks burned, simmering with humiliation and something deeper: resentment.

Without waiting for a response, Eliza stood and held out her hand. “Come on. Let’s get downstairs.”

Will was already in the living room, seated on the floor among bright plastic toddler toys. Peggy’s stomach turned. The setup—the role—was new for her. The first time she was treated exactly like him.

“Where are Zoey and Max?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Eliza’s eyes flicked toward her—sharp, unreadable. A slow, cruel smile curled across her lips.

“That’s for grown-ups to know,” she said smoothly. “No need for little babies to worry. Aunty Eliza is here to take care of you.”

Peggy’s fists clenched at her sides, hatred bubbling just under her skin.

Eliza pulled out her phone, the smirk still playing on her lips. “Say cheese, babies,” she cooed—playful, but commanding.

Peggy and Will exchanged uneasy glances, then obeyed, crawling toward the camera—faces caught between defiance and resignation.

The recording ended quickly. Eliza pocketed the phone without a word.

She disappeared into the hallway and returned with a diaper bag and clean pajamas.

“Strip,” she ordered, voice clipped.

Like toddlers, they were changed right there on the living room floor. Eliza’s hands were efficient, firm—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Peggy’s skin burned with shame, but Eliza’s grip left no room for resistance.

Once dressed, she herded them on all fours toward the kitchen.

Dinner was served on colorful plastic plates: mashed potatoes, soft carrots, shredded chicken breast, and a scoop of applesauce. Warm milk and diluted juice waited in sippy cups.

Eliza hovered like a drill sergeant.

“Chew slowly. No spilling,” she snapped, catching Peggy mid-drip.

Every word was sharp. Every correction exact. Mealtime wasn’t about care—it was discipline disguised as nurture.

After the final bite, Eliza clapped her hands. “Cleanup position.”

Immediately, Peggy and Will dropped to the floor—thumbs in mouths, hands raised stiffly. Eliza gave a satisfied nod.

“Zoey trained you well. At least you behave.”

Plates cleared, control re-established, Eliza gave the next command. “Toothbrushes.”

Peggy grabbed hers—a tiny act of rebellion. One of the few things Zoey had still allowed her to do alone. She held it tight, lifting it toward her mouth.

“Hand it here,” Eliza barked.

Before Peggy could argue, Eliza stepped forward and took it with swift precision.

“No solo brushing. Not under my watch.”

She guided them into the bathroom and seated them cross-legged in front of the closed toilet. She perched above them, commanding from the lid like a throne.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

Peggy and Will raised their eyes, cheeks flushed.

Eliza applied toothpaste and turned to Peggy. Her grip was firm, every motion controlled and deliberate. She held Peggy’s chin with one hand, brushing with the other.

“Open wide. No fussing. This is how it’s done.”

Peggy stiffened, tried to turn away. Eliza’s patience snapped.

In one swift, brutal motion, she turned Peggy’s head back and pinned her arms behind her.

“No moving,” she hissed.

Peggy froze, wide-eyed and powerless. Her mouth forced open, her back pressed to the cold porcelain. Eliza’s stare never wavered.

“Hold still,” she said again, voice low and final.

When she finished brushing, Eliza plucked the pacifier from Will’s mouth and popped it into Peggy’s without pause.

“No pacis during brushing,” she muttered. “Seems only logical.”

Peggy’s eyes widened in shock as the silicone filled her mouth.

Will watched in silence, small hands folded in his lap. He knew better than to resist.

When it was his turn, he obeyed completely. Eliza’s motions were just as efficient, just as controlling.

When she finished, she wiped his chin, removed the pacifier from Peggy’s lips, and returned it to Will. For a brief, strange second, the wet silicone passed between them—an eerie intimacy neither of them understood.

Eliza snapped it back into place and stood.

“Done.”

She helped Peggy up and led them down the hall.

Will’s room came first.

Dim. Sparse. A mattress and a blanket, nothing else. He crawled into bed without complaint. Eliza sat beside him, bottle in hand, and opened a picture book.

“Once upon a time, in a faraway forest, there lived a tiny bear named Benny…”

Will suckled quietly as her voice softened into a lullaby. His eyelids fluttered shut.

Eventually, she eased the bottle from his lips and closed the book. She kissed his forehead, tucked him in tight, and clicked the lock as she left.

In the hallway, Peggy waited on all fours.

She crawled behind Eliza in silence. No words. Just understanding.

At her door, Eliza stepped aside, and Peggy crawled in first.

The air inside was heavier. It looked like a teenager’s room, but it felt like a nursery—just one drained of joy. Eliza followed, moving with quiet authority.

Without a word, she helped Peggy onto the bed and laid her flat.

She began to rock her legs gently, slowly, back and forth. Her voice came soft:

The wheels on the bus go round and round…

The rhythm, the lull, the tone—it unraveled Peggy completely.

And then—again—she lost control.

She soiled herself.

Eliza didn’t flinch. She simply pressed Peggy’s legs inward, helping her finish, calm and practiced.

Then she crawled to the head of the bed, pulling Peggy’s face to her chest. She mimed breastfeeding—gently, rhythmically. There was no milk. Just the eerie illusion of care.

She’s crazier than Zoey, Peggy thought, dazed.

Eliza’s voice broke the quiet.

“I always looked up to you, you know. You were so smart. So in charge. Untouchable.”

Her tone thinned. Almost wistful.

“But now? Look at you.”

She leaned in close, her breath warm on Peggy’s cheek.

Without another word, she pulled a pacifier from her pocket and eased it between Peggy’s lips. Peggy accepted it.

Too tired to resist. Too ashamed to care.

The soft sound of wipes. The quiet snap of diaper tapes. A clean one secured.

Eliza wrapped her tightly in a blanket, sealing her in.

Then, a kiss.

Not from Eliza.

From Zoey.

Was she there the whole time?

Did she watch?

Or had she just arrived?

Before Peggy could process it, the light clicked off.

The lock turned quietly behind her.

Peggy lay still, pacifier between her lips, staring at the ceiling. Wrapped in warmth. Pinned by silence.

[oadbl]

Sunday Funday

Peggy woke groggy, curled tightly on the bed with her knees drawn to her chest. She stirred slightly as Zoey pressed them inward, and a long, final fart slipped out.

Did I sleep through all of that? Peggy wondered, her mind still foggy.

“You’re up,” Zoey said flatly, unfastening the diaper and wiping her down with clinical efficiency.

Before leaving, she plucked the pacifier from Peggy’s mouth. “Your clothes are on the edge of the bed. Come down when you’re done.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Peggy alone in the dim morning light.

She lay still a moment longer before sitting up slowly. On the edge of the bed lay her new clothes—grown-up clothes, or at least trying to be. The outfit was entirely black, except for a pair of stark white panties. The skirt—if it could be called that—was just a little too short. If she bent down, the underwear would definitely show.

With a quiet sigh, Peggy slipped into the outfit. It looked mature, but everything felt a little off, a little tight, as if chosen deliberately to remind her she wasn’t entirely in control.

She smoothed the hem of the skirt, knowing it wouldn’t help much, then made her way downstairs.

Peggy stepped softly down the stairs, the skirt’s hem brushing the tops of her thighs. She tugged at it again, instinctively, though it made no difference.

Zoey sat at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in front of her and a single plate already set: toast cut into neat triangles, a banana sliced just so. No knife or fork—just fingers.

Next to her sat Will in a booster seat, cheeks puffed out and eyes half-lidded with sleep. Zoey fed him gently, one hand holding the spoon, the other cradling her coffee mug. Across the table, Max was halfway through his cereal, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

“You took your time,” Zoey said without looking up, coaxing another spoonful into Will’s mouth.

Peggy didn’t answer. She slid into the empty chair, trying to keep her knees tightly together, painfully aware of how little her skirt covered.

“You’ll eat, then we’re going. No mess, no stalling.” Zoey’s voice was calm, but absolute.

Peggy nodded, picking up a piece of toast with trembling fingers. It was still warm.

After Will finished the last bite, Zoey stood, wiping his face and hands with a damp cloth. Without missing a beat, she turned to Peggy and did the same—quick, firm, practiced.

“There,” Zoey said. “Let’s move.”

She pointed toward the door.

Peggy and Will exchanged a glance before following the direction of her finger, Max already slipping on his shoes by the mat.

Peggy got to sit in the front seat this time—a small upgrade that might have felt like a privilege if the seatbelt hadn’t been buckled for her and the windows locked.

The plastic purse with the glittery unicorn clasp sat in her lap. Zoey handed it to her without a word as they pulled out of the driveway. Peggy turned it over in her hands, fingers brushing the sparkles. She remembered when Zoey had bought it the previous weekend. “You’ll need something to keep your little treasures in,” she’d said, smiling faintly. Peggy hadn’t asked what kind of treasures she was supposed to have.

They pulled into the Baby’s R Us lot without fanfare. Will recognized it immediately—this was where he’d first soiled his pull-up, back when this all began. It had felt like a strange, low point. Now, it felt almost nostalgic.

The store was mostly empty this early in the morning. Cheerful music played overhead, uncomfortably bright against the quiet dread in Peggy’s chest. Will toddled alongside the cart as Zoey pushed it with one hand, steering it purposefully toward the strollers.

“Can I help you find something?” a bright-faced sales rep asked, appearing beside them as if summoned.

“Yes,” Zoey said without hesitation. “Something sturdy. Twin stroller. Both sides should accommodate an adult.”

The sales rep blinked, then smiled again, only slightly more strained. “We do have a few adaptable models…”

They followed her down the aisle, Will’s pacifier bobbing as he sucked. Peggy lagged behind slightly, nerves buzzing as she tried not to draw attention—though she was sure anyone passing would notice. The unicorn purse bounced gently against her hip.

The rep finally showed them one: big. Sturdy, just like Zoey had asked. With adjustable footrests and harnesses. She explained the modifications in calm phrases like “mobility support” and “inclusive seating.” Zoey nodded, clearly sold.

Peggy stared at the thing. It looked like a throne disguised as a prison.

Zoey placed a hand on her back—not ungentle, but firm. “You’ve done well this morning,” she said. “Don’t ruin it.”

Peggy nodded slowly, clutching the purse like a talisman. The harness straps gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

The stroller was scheduled for delivery, but they didn’t leave right away. Zoey led them across the plaza, toward the next big-box store. The yellow-and-blue IKEA facade loomed ahead like a cartoon fortress, cheerful and imposing.

Will was already nestled into the demo stroller the sales rep had let them wheel across the lot “just to get a feel for it.” He sat snug in the left seat, legs splayed comfortably, both hands gripping a baby bottle filled with milk. His eyes were heavy-lidded as he suckled, completely at ease, completely oblivious.

Zoey didn’t push the stroller herself.

She handed it to Peggy.

“You hold it,” she said. “Nice and steady.”

Peggy’s hands curled reluctantly around the padded grips. Her skirt hitched again as she adjusted her stance, and she tried not to think about who could see what. Will gave a soft sigh and shifted, the bottle tipping back as he drank. Zoey stayed close, one step behind her—close enough that Peggy wouldn’t dream of letting go.

They were halfway across the parking lot when Max’s voice broke the air.

“Hey!”

Peggy froze.

Max stood near a row of parked bikes, half-smiling, half-panicked. Two older boys hovered behind him—tall, casual, a little bored. One wore a knit beanie despite the heat, the other tapped the tail of a skateboard against the pavement. They weren’t threatening, exactly, but they didn’t look like the kind of boys Peggy ever imagined her son hanging out with.

How long was I even in Tokyo? The thought hit her sharply. Did I not give them enough—Max, Zoey, all of them? And now this is what I get back?

Max jogged forward a few steps, then hesitated when he saw who was pushing the stroller.

His mouth opened.

His gaze went to Will—half-asleep, suckling down a bottle—and then to Peggy. Her hands gripped tight on the stroller handle. The unicorn purse bumped against her hip with each nervous step.

Zoey was already walking again, eyes forward.

The boys stayed put, exchanging smirks. One of them snorted. The sound made Peggy’s ears burn.

“Eyes ahead,” Zoey stated towards her entourage.

Peggy adjusted her grip and walked faster.

As they stepped closer towards IKEA…

“Eliza,” Zoey said before the woman could speak.

Eliza was waiting for them with a drink tray balanced expertly in one hand. Her sunglasses rested atop her head, and her clothes looked like they’d been steamed in a cloud of linen-scented confidence.

“For you,” she said, passing Zoey a double espresso. “Figured you’d need it.”

Then to Peggy: “And one for you, too.” She handed over the kids' chocolate milk in a to-go cup with a bright red straw and a plastic lid. A warning printed around the rim read: Caution—Contents May Be Hot.

Peggy blinked. The cup was warm. Too warm.

Zoey took the stroller from her, “Two hands please,” she said

Peggy obeyed. The cup was awkward and too full, the straw bobbing in the heat. She didn’t sip it—couldn’t, really—but she held it like she was meant to.

“Stay close,” Eliza said, wrapping her fingers around Peggy’s wrist like she was guiding a child through traffic. “This place is a maze.”

Peggy tried not to flinch. Her other hands still gripped the chocolate milk. She hadn’t had a sip yet—the straw bobbed and bounced with every step. The heat radiated faintly into her palms.

So this is how it’s going to be, she thought. If Zoey was pushing the stroller, then Eliza would hold the leash.

The group moved deeper into the store.

Zoey led the way, weaving them past towering shelves of folded textiles and cardboard mock-ups of Scandinavian life. She didn’t look back to see if Peggy was following—she didn’t have to. Eliza’s hand on her wrist saw to that.

“Bedroom section next. She’ll need sheets.”

“For the big girl bed?” Eliza asked with a smirk.

Zoey didn’t smile back. “Nope,” she said. “For the crib….”

Peggy gasped quietly, instinctively stepping back.

Zoey didn’t turn. She just paused for half a second, as if she knew what had just happened behind her, then kept walking.

Eliza, on the other hand, saw. She looked down at the spreading stain with clinical precision, then back up at Peggy’s face.

“Oopsy,” she said lightly. “You’ll have to be more careful.”

Peggy nodded mutely, eyes locked on the cup. Chocolate milk had forced its way up through the lid and now ran in slow, tacky streams over her hands, seeping between her fingers. The straw dangled limply, swaying with each tiny motion she didn’t mean to make. She wanted to hide it. Hide herself. But her hands just hovered, twitching with indecision. Throw it away? Hold it tighter? Try to clean it? It didn’t matter — she already felt marked.

Her skirt clung wetly to her thighs now, sheer where it shouldn't be. The fabric had gone nearly translucent from the spill, and she could feel the air brushing against her underwear — bright white, embarrassingly plain, too juvenile under the circumstances. 

Around them, the illusion of comfort continued—throw pillows, fairy lights, toddler-height bookshelves filled with alphabet blocks and plush whales. It was all too clean, too curated. A life that wasn’t hers, dressed up and staged.

But she kept moving. Because Eliza was still holding her. Because Zoey was still ahead, never once looking back.

Because there wasn’t really anywhere else to go.

Then… Zoey finally stopped.

She turned, walked back to Peggy without a word, and reached for the cup. Peggy didn’t resist — she just looked at it one last time as it was taken from her hands, like something she’d been too careless to be trusted with.

Zoey held it by the lid with two fingers, looking down at the chocolate-slick sides with quiet disapproval.

“Eliza,” she said, handing it off, “toss this. She doesn’t need any more.”

“Of course,” Eliza replied, already moving. The cup landed in the trash with a soft, final thud.

Zoey gave Peggy one long, assessing look. Then she sighed — not dramatically, just enough to twist something tight in Peggy’s stomach.

“Hold still,” she said, her voice low but firm — the kind of tone that didn’t invite argument.

She dropped the diaper bag onto a low bench beside a floor display of bunk beds and unzipped it with the ease of long practice. The pack of wipes came out like clockwork. This wasn’t new. It was just happening again.

Peggy stood frozen.

“I expected better from you today,” Zoey said evenly, kneeling in front of her. She tugged Peggy gently by the hips to square her stance and began blotting the milk from her legs. “We talked about this, remember? You told me you were ready.”

The wipe passed slowly over her skirt, peeling away the sticky patches of chocolate in quiet, unhurried strokes. Then it moved to her thigh — deliberate, firm.

“I know it’s hard,” Zoey continued, wiping the edge of the fabric. “But being a big girl means keeping it together. Even when things go wrong. Especially then.”

Peggy’s fingers twitched at her sides. Her lower lip trembled. The words cut deeper than if Zoey had shouted.

And then, without thinking, her thumb drifted upward, brushing against her mouth — just barely. She wasn’t even aware of it until—

“Don’t,” Zoey said, still focused on her task.

The word landed like a tap to the forehead. Not cruel. Just final.

Peggy froze. Her thumb hovered, then dropped slowly back down.

Zoey didn’t pause. She kept wiping — now her hands, one at a time, working down each finger, cleaning them in slow, methodical passes. The milk had dried tacky between the knuckles. Peggy watched numbly as it vanished.

And then Zoey moved beneath the hem of the skirt — not hesitating — sliding the wipe under, brushing along the top of her thigh, and up, just far enough to reach under the edge of her panties. The wipe was cold. Her breath caught. Zoey’s only comment:

“You aren’t supposed to be turned on by this...”

She was already reaching for the next one.

A family passed nearby. A little boy slurped from his chocolate milk and pointed toward the bunk beds with a happy shout. One parent turned their head quickly, averting their gaze. The other watched a moment longer — puzzled, silent — before catching up.

Peggy closed her eyes.

Not because of them. Not because she was being wiped down in public by her daughter like a child. Not even because of the skirt, or the strangers, or the way her hands still trembled.

But because Zoey was right..

 

At checkout, Peggy’s voice cracked, barely a whisper.
“I—I need the potty.”

Zoey didn’t look up. She simply handed her credit card to Eliza with practiced ease.
“Can you finish up? I’ve got her.”

Eliza nodded, already moving to handle the transaction, with Will lightly stirring in the stroller beside her. Zoey reached down and grabbed Peggy’s wrist—her touch firm but not unkind. The diaper bag was already slung over her shoulder. With a small tug, she led Peggy toward the restroom.

Peggy followed obediently, her steps hesitant, shrinking inward with each one. The noises and bustle of the store faded behind them, replaced by a dull, overwhelming quiet in her chest. The world outside felt too loud, too sharp—too much. As Zoey moved swiftly through the hall, Peggy felt her bladder slowly release. Her stained clothes, and soon to be stained panties, made her feel even more like a toddler than when Zoey had cleaned her up.

Inside the tiled echo of the restroom, it was different. Quiet. Still. Just the two of them. The soft scrape of Zoey’s shoes on the floor, the distant hum of the air vent, and Peggy’s own shallow breaths filled the space.

Zoey didn’t waste time. Locking the family bathroom behind her, she pulled Peggy’s skirt down gently but efficiently, revealing the dampness spreading across her panntis. There was no scolding—Peggy’s flushed cheeks and downcast eyes said enough.

“Down,” Zoey said firmly.

Peggy sank to her knees, the cold tile kissing her skin through the thin padding.

Zoey was already crouched beside her, opening the diaper bag.
“Spilled your drink earlier, and now this,” she murmured—not with anger, but with quiet finality. “Big girl day is done. We’re back to square one, for now.”

Peggy’s lip wobbled. She opened her mouth to protest—but Zoey was faster, firmly slipping the pacifier between her lips and giving it a small, reassuring push.

When the change was done, Zoey stood and turned toward the toilet behind her. A moment later came the unmistakable sound of a zipper, and then the steady rhythm of her relieving herself.

“Eyes on me,” Zoey called gently, her tone making it clear it wasn’t optional.

Peggy’s gaze fluttered upward—first landing on Zoey’s shoes, neatly placed, then on the bunched denim at her ankles. Her eyes drifted higher, tracing the outline of Zoey’s silhouette, before locking with hers.

Zoey sat tall, composed, relaxed in her stance. She wasn’t rushed. She wasn’t flustered. She was in control—of herself, of the space, of Peggy.

The sound of her stream echoed easily in the small room, a simple, adult act that Peggy couldn’t manage right now. Something about its normalcy—the effortless dignity of it—made Peggy feel impossibly small.

There she sat: knees tucked in, diaper snug around her waist, pacifier bobbing rhythmically between her lips. A strange flutter stirred in her chest. Not quite shame. Something softer. Something like awe.

When Zoey finished, she flushed, washed her hands, and returned. She crouched again, offering her hand –  “There,” she said softly, helping Peggy to her feet. “No more worries today.”

Peggy nodded faintly, the pacifier still anchored in place. The skirt brushed against the padding with each step. The crinkle beneath was soft, but loud enough to remind her with every movement.

Outside the restroom, the fluorescent lights seemed to spotlight her transformation. She walked slowly now, uncertain and vulnerable. But Zoey’s hand on her wrist —firm and steady—was an anchor.

As they turned the corner into the main concourse, a young family passed them. A little girl with bouncing pigtails waddled by, her light-up shoes blinking with every step as she clung to her mother’s hand.

Zoey looked down at Peggy’s trembling wrist and said quietly, “No diapers, no pacifiers. That’s how big girls do it.”

Zoey looked down at Peggy’s trembling wrist and said just loud enough, “No diapers, no pacifiers. That’s how big girls do it.”

The girl’s mother’s eyes flicked toward Peggy for a brief, knowing moment. Her hand brushed casually against her own side, fingers lingering as if instinctively aware of something unspoken. Peggy felt the weight of the diaper beneath her clothes—a silent, unmistakable marker that set her apart not only from the confident little girl but from adults her own age as well. The mother’s glance felt invasive, like an unspoken diaper check by a stranger, leaving Peggy exposed and shrinking even further.

Peggy’s cheeks flushed hot. She didn’t speak. She just looked down, eyes on her shoes, and kept walking.

Eliza looked up as they rejoined her. Her expression was warm, sympathetic. She didn’t ask questions—just smiled quietly at Peggy.

“We’re going to wait for a bit,” Zoey said, pushing Peggy into the oversized stroller. “You’ve had enough for today.”

Peggy didn’t resist. She settled in beside Will, still fast asleep. The padded seat welcomed her easily. The pacifier stayed in her mouth, and her thumbs tucked beneath the strap across her chest.

There was no judgment.
Just comfort.
Just surrender.

 

Sunday Night

The car was still warm from the ride home, and the boxes sat neatly stacked in the living room—four identical IKEA cribs, cleverly doubled into two, promising at least the hope of peaceful nights.

Zoey and Eliza sat on the couch, watching Will crouched on the floor, an instruction manual open beside him, Allen key in hand. He bit his lip in concentration, carefully fitting the slats together, muttering behind his pacifier. –  “If this goes sideways, I’m blaming IKEA.”

Zoey grinned, arms crossed.  “You’ve got this, Daddy. Just go slow and steady.”

Eliza nodded, her eyes fixed on his hands. “We’re lucky you’re patient. I’d already be halfway through and ready to throw it out the window.”

Meanwhile, Peggy had been sent to her makeshift office—a quiet corner facing the wall, where Zoey and Eliza could still keep watch. When Zoey noticed she wasn’t focused on her task, she didn’t hesitate.

“Timeout,” Zoey said, calm and firm.

Peggy’s face crumpled with frustration as she shuffled to the corner, nose to the wall, a penny taped just out of reach as a gentle distraction. The soft pop of her pacifier and the crinkle of her diaper were the only sounds in the quiet.

By seven, Max returned—he’d already eaten but brought dinner for Zoey and Eliza. The cribs were finished. Will wasn’t quite sure how, but Zoey and Eliza were already hauling them into the designated rooms, one quiet triumph at a time.

The evening care routine resumed without pause. Bottles were prepared. Food warmed. Zoey and Eliza sat close, bottle-feeding from behind with a seamless rhythm. The smell of Max’s food still lingered, rich and comforting, making their simpler meal feel like an afterthought.

Peggy looked up at Zoey with that same trusting expression as Zoey cooed and made gentle sounds, coaxing her into each bite. Will’s attention stayed fixed on Eliza, who responded with calm encouragement and practiced sounds of the little train that always brought a smile.

It was a strange, tender ballet of submission and care—the steady cadence of feeding, the rustling of diapers, the breathy stillness of a home run with quiet control.

Like the night before, Eliza demonstrated how to brush Peggy’s teeth. The memory was still vivid—stark, a little jarring.

In one swift, efficient motion, she’d turned Peggy’s head, pinned her arms behind her, and pressed her toward the cold edge of the porcelain sink.

Peggy froze, eyes wide and helpless.

“Open wide,” Eliza instructed—not harsh, but unyielding.

The pacifier fell out. Her teeth were scrubbed clean, rinsed, and the pacifier returned before she could protest.

Now, with the day winding down, Peggy and Will were tucked into their cribs. The soft mattresses welcomed them, quieting their restless limbs.

The doors clicked shut and locked.

In the living room, Zoey and Eliza finally collapsed into the couch, exchanging a long, silent glance.

Exhausted—but satisfied.

[oadbl]

Monday — Glittery Protocol (Finalized)

Peggy woke slowly, the soft tickle of Zoey’s fingers playing at her feet coaxing her out of sleep. Her diaper crinkled beneath the sheets — a constant, uncomfortable reminder of how much had changed. Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting pale streaks across her blanket and her face.

“Time to go, Mommy,” Zoey whispered, already moving with quiet authority.

Peggy’s protest was stifled by the pacifier still resting between her lips. She hadn’t even realized it was there until Zoey plucked it free with practiced ease. It didn’t even sting anymore — not like the first time. It was just routine now. Efficient.

Zoey peeled back the blanket. “Let’s get you changed before you leak again.”

Peggy sighed, curling in reflexively as Zoey went to work. This, too, had become normal.

In the kitchen, Will sat at the table in his cloud-print onesie, working his way through a bottle of warm milk. His hair was mussed, his face freshly scrubbed. He looked up as Peggy passed and gave her a lazy wave, pacifier bobbing from the corner of his mouth.

“Morning, Daddy,” Max called as he passed through with his bookbag. “Try to stay dry today!”

Will groaned theatrically. “You try staying dry when your juice is rationed like a prisoner.”

“Sticker chart says rationing works,” Zoey called from the hallway.

Peggy blinked groggily as she was ushered into the front room, her outfit for work already laid out. She dressed quickly — slacks, blouse, nothing flashy — but the pull-up beneath it all made her feel anything but put-together.

By the door, Zoey stopped her. “Hold on.”

She reached under Peggy’s waistband and checked. “Dry. Good.”

Then, with a pointed look, she held up the pacifier Peggy had somehow retrieved again. “You almost walked out with it. Again.”

Peggy flushed.

“You’re good,” Zoey said, giving her tote a quick double-check. “Gracy is waiting.”

At the office, the shift was subtle. People greeted her like usual, but Peggy was hyper-aware of everything — the purse in her tote, the faint rustle of her pull-up, the way Grace’s eyes lingered just a second too long.

Lunch was supposed to be a break — sandwiches, small talk, something normal.

Until the check came.

Peggy reached into her tote and felt plastic. Glitter. Her stomach dropped.

She pulled out a bright pink unicorn purse. Inside: laminated play money, a plastic “Peggy ID” with a smiley face, and a folded note:

Quote

REAL PURSE PRIVILEGES SUSPENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
PLAY PAYMENTS ONLY. — Zoey 💜

Peggy blinked hard.

Grace raised an eyebrow. “What… is that?”

Peggy forced a breath. “My daughter is managing some things at home. Behavior systems. Temporary.”

Grace didn’t laugh. She just nodded. “You okay?”

Peggy let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Weirdly, yeah.”

Grace’s smile was small but steady. “You’ve never missed a meeting. You still scare the VPs. If the purse works, it works.”

She paid the bill herself.

As they approached the car, Grace paused. “You want to ride up front, or...?” Her tone was light. “Back seat feel more appropriate today?”

Peggy didn’t answer. She just climbed into the back.

Grace didn’t say anything else.

 

Later that afternoon, Grace made a quiet call.

“Hey, Zoey?”

“Is everything okay?” Zoey asked, already knowing where this was going.

“Yeah,” Grace said. “I had lunch with your mom. Apparently... you’re in charge now?”

Zoey chuckled. “Yeah. I kind of treat Mom and Dad like kids now. Dad’s in the guest room — we merged two cribs, so it’s basically a nursery. And Mom’s in my room.”

“In your room?” Grace asked.

“I took the master. It just made sense.”

There was a pause.

“And at work?” Grace asked. “What should I do if she… slips up?”

Zoey sounded surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You know...” Grace said gently.

“Oh,” Zoey replied. “Whatever you think’s best. Treat her like a normal adult, or — if you want — take charge.”

“Take charge how?”

Zoey didn’t hesitate. “Make sure she’s wearing her pull-up. Remind her to text if she needs the potty. No thumb-sucking at work, obviously, but keep her on track. Check-ins help. You could even use the sticker system if that works.”

Grace’s tone sharpened slightly. “You want me to manage her?”

“Exactly,” Zoey said. “You’ve got the authority. I trust your judgment.”

Grace exhaled slowly. “Alright, Zoey. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

 

That evening, Will was already in his crib, thumbing through a waterproof picture book and sucking gently on his bottle. His sticker chart glittered with a new gold star:
Didn’t argue about nap time!

Peggy stood by her own changing table, arms out, quiet and still as Zoey reviewed her chart.

“Told the truth at lunch,” Zoey said, peeling a sticker from the sheet. “⭐ Bravery star.”

She pressed it gently to the corner of the dresser.

The lights dimmed. The lock clicked.

Peggy curled under the blanket and stared at the ceiling.

From across the hall, she could hear Will’s soft sucking, the occasional flip of a page. Further down, Zoey and Max’s laughter floated faintly from the living room.

She was warm.
Cared for.
Contained.
And for now, that was enough.

 

Tuesday — Mrs. Jones’s Backseat 

Peggy woke up with her legs in the air.

Not from stretching. Not from a dream.

Zoey was gently moving them at the ankles, rocking them back and forth in a practiced rhythm, coaxing her body into motion.

It worked.

A soft grunt slipped out before Peggy was fully conscious. Her body obeyed instinctively, like it had been retrained. She blushed—but not from shame. Not anymore. Just... a strange, sinking relief. One less thing to worry about.

“Good girl,” Zoey murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Peggy’s face. “I’ll change you after Max leaves.”

Peggy didn’t argue. She didn’t even open her eyes. She just let it happen.

The morning moved quickly. Max was off to school, Will already camped out in the living room, chewing on a plastic spoon and babbling to his stuffed bear.

Zoey changed them both together—side by side, like siblings on a shared schedule. Both freshly emptied. Both freshly cleaned.

Neither giving it a second thought now.

In the front room, Peggy’s outfit was laid out on the ottoman—slacks, blouse, a hairbrush, and a fresh pull-up folded like an afterthought.

Zoey watched her dress while dressing Will in another ridiculously childish set of clothes for the day.

Outside, a car pulled up.

Grace’s car.

Peggy blinked, confused. She hadn’t known Grace would be picking her up now.

Zoey opened the door before Peggy even stepped outside.

Grace stayed firmly behind the wheel, wearing her usual crisp blazer and dark sunglasses, the picture of cool professionalism. She didn’t smile.

Zoey handed over Peggy’s tote like a preschool drop-off.

“Diapers are for home,” she said plainly. “She’s in pull-ups. Should be fine through the day—assuming she remembers the potty. Text me if she forgets.”

Grace gave a quiet nod. “Got it.”

Peggy hesitated.

Zoey didn’t.

She gently nudged Peggy forward with a hand at her back.

Click — seatbelt buckled.

Then, just as quickly, Zoey leaned into the backseat and plucked the pacifier from Peggy’s mouth.

“Oops,” she said lightly, slipping it into her front pocket like a confiscated toy.

The door shut.

The car began to move.

“Just so you know,” Grace said from behind the wheel, glancing into the rearview mirror, “it’s Mrs. Jones now.”

Peggy blinked.

“What?” she murmured.

“You always called me Grace. But if I’m picking you up, dropping you off, carrying your bag… it just makes sense.”

Peggy flushed.

“I didn’t know you were married,” she mumbled.

Mrs. Jones smiled faintly.

“I don’t advertise it. One kid. Cute menace.”

Peggy stared out the window, mind drifting.

She remembered now—Grace had been Will’s secretary, back before she took over. She hadn’t thought much of it then.

Now… she wondered if he’d ever ridden in the back seat too.

At the office, Mrs. Jones kept close all day.

Not hovering. Not obvious.

Just present.

She reminded Peggy to sip her water. Shifted her meeting schedule when she noticed Peggy fidgeting. Redirected a junior staffer who barged in without knocking.

“Let her finish her snack,” she said smoothly. “Then she’ll be ready for questions.”

Peggy hadn’t been snacking.

But she nodded anyway and quietly put down the chewed corner of her pen cap.

The meeting she’d prepared for on Monday finally happened.

Peggy was sharp. Articulate. On point.

But the pink glitter purse still sat quietly in her desk drawer.

And every subtle shift in her seat reminded her what she was wearing underneath.

When it ended, Mrs. Jones handed her a juice box.

Not sarcastically.

Not mockingly.

Just… handed it over.

“You earned it,” she said.

Peggy took it. Drank it. Didn’t meet her eyes.

When the day ended, Mrs. Jones packed up Peggy’s tote without asking.

She opened the back door and waited.

Peggy climbed in without a word.

The silence on the way home was familiar now.

Comforting, even.

At the curb, Zoey was already outside, arms crossed, a half-smile on her face.

Zoey didn’t come to Peggy's door right away. She waited, like this was routine now.

Grace lowered the window halfway. “She did fine,” she said, voice calm and direct.

Zoey strolled over, not bothering to whisper. “Dry all day?”

“As far as I could tell. She had a juice box after the meeting — I reminded her once, just in case.”

Zoey smirked faintly. “Thanks, Grace.”

Peggy’s stomach turned at the sound of that name. Grace.

She wasn’t allowed to say that.

Zoey pulled Peggy out of the backseat gently, pressing the pacifier into her mouth before unbuckling the seatbelt.

Peggy sat there small and quiet, the pacifier soft between her lips as the two women talked about her — using Zoey’s casual “Grace,” but reminding Peggy she was supposed to call her “Mrs. Jones.”

She heard every word.

No one spoke to her directly.

No one asked if she understood.

“She remembered the potty?”

“Reminded her once.” Grace’s voice was matter-of-fact. “She didn’t argue.”

“Good girl,” Zoey murmured, mostly to herself.

“Same time,” Zoey confirmed.

The car pulled away.

That night, Will was already babbling in his crib, flipping through a waterproof picture book with one hand, bottle in the other.

His sticker chart glittered with a new gold star: Didn’t argue about nap time!

Peggy stood quietly at her own changing table, arms out, waiting as Zoey reviewed her chart.

Zoey peeled off a sticker and pressed it gently to the corner.

“Wore big girl pants all day.” ⭐

Peggy smiled into her sheets as she curled up in her crib.

Across the hall, she could hear Will’s soft sucking, the occasional flip of a page.

Laughter from the living room.

Max calling something about the TV.

She was warm.

Cared for.

Still in control… somehow.

But it felt better not to be.

 

Hump Day

Peggy woke with her legs in the air—just like yesterday.

But this time, her eyes fluttered open faster.

Zoey gently changed her soiled diaper, the crinkling of the fresh one sounding unusually loud in the quiet room. Then, she pulled her off the bed, guiding her toward the kitchen where sunlight spilled in, making Peggy seem even smaller against the vast, bright space—like a tiny figure swallowed by the room.

Peering through the window, Peggy spotted Grace’s familiar car again.

Only this time, there was a small figure sitting in the back seat—Grace’s young son, who looked so much bigger and more grown-up than Peggy, making her feel even smaller, younger somehow.

Zoey opened the door and gave a brief, polite smile to Grace as she buckled Peggy snugly into her car seat.

As they pulled away, Grace’s eyes caught the pacifier dangling between Peggy’s lips.

“Oh no,” Grace murmured in a syrupy voice, speaking directly to Peggy as if she were a fragile doll.
“Sweetie, can you give Mommy the pacifier Peggy’s sucking on?” she asked her son.

The boy nodded dutifully—old enough to follow instructions but still too young to understand their full weight.

He reached sideways gently, and with a soft plop, pulled the pacifier from Peggy’s mouth, placing it carefully into his mother’s outstretched hand.

For a moment, Peggy felt herself shrink further—a helpless infant needing a child to remove her pacifier. Her lip trembled as a wave of sadness crept in. She wanted to cry or to suck her thumb for comfort, but deep down, she knew that would mean letting the boy win. So she swallowed the lump in her throat and stared out the window instead.

Grace smiled faintly, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them, like a shared secret.

 

---

Meanwhile, Zoey was briefing Will on his task for the day.

Today was different.

For the first time in over ten days, Will was given a real job: ride his bike to the corner store to pick up a few things.

“You’re ready,” Zoey said with a nod of approval.

Will’s eyes sparkled—a mixture of excitement and nerves.

This day held the promise of a new kind of challenge.

 

---

Will pedaled steadily down the quiet streets, the sun warming his back. But just as he neared home, his bike hit a patch of loose gravel. He lost control, slipping and tumbling across the pavement.

In the sudden chaos, the small items he'd bought spilled and scattered behind him on the sidewalk, forgotten.

Panting, he scrambled to his feet, brushing gravel from his palms, frustration mixing with a growing determination.

Only then did he realize he’d fallen too far from home to bike back easily. Worse still, the shock had caused him to lose control of his bladder. A dark patch spread across his pants, dampening the seat of his shorts and creeping down his legs.

His cheeks flushed with shame and panic. How was he going to face Zoey now? She would be so mad.

He knelt down quickly, gathering the scattered items as best he could. Each crumpled wrapper and spilled bottle felt like a reminder of his failure.

But beneath the embarrassment, a stubborn flicker of resolve burned. He wouldn’t let this mistake define him. Next time, he’d be more careful. Stronger.

Afternoon Delight

Zoey came home to an unusually quiet house. She called out for Will, her voice echoing down empty hallways.

“Will? You home?”

No answer.

She searched the living room, the kitchen, even the backyard—still no sign of him.

Growing worried, she moved toward the garage.

The door was slightly ajar.

Inside, she found Will crouched in the corner, a small puddle spreading beneath him. His eyes were wide and uncertain, frozen like a little kid caught in trouble.

Zoey’s voice softened into a sing-song, almost coaxing tone as she knelt beside him.

“Oh, sweetie, what’s this? Did you have a little accident?” she asked gently.

Will’s cheeks flushed hot with shame. He wanted to disappear.

Without hesitation, Zoey pulled a pacifier from her pocket and gently popped it into his mouth.

“There you go, daddy,” she cooed, emphasizing the word like a secret code. “Now, no fussing, okay?”

Will’s eyes widened, a flush of mixed embarrassment and confusion washing over him as the pacifier silenced him.

Zoey helped him up, her hands gentle but sure.

As she began to wipe him down, she noticed the wetness had soaked through—and the unmistakable smell confirmed her suspicion.

“Oh, sweetie,” Zoey murmured, voice syrupy soft, “Looks like you pooped yourself too.”

Will’s jaw tightened, burning with humiliation.

Zoey unfolded a fresh diaper, her fingers deft as she guided him to lie back on the garage floor.

“There we go, daddy,” she said, fastening the diaper snugly around him, “All clean and cozy now.”

She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, smiling faintly as if comforting a baby.

“You’re such a good boy,” 

Will remained still, swallowed by the weight of the moment—caught between the man he was supposed to be and the child Zoey insisted he still was.

The workday finally came to an end. Grace gathered her things, the weight of the day heavy on her shoulders, and headed toward her car. Outside, the late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the empty parking lot.

Peggy followed a small step behind—no need to carry anything. That was Grace’s job now.

Grace carefully buckled Peggy into the back seat, the straps snug around her tiny frame.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Grace started the engine. Classic rock hummed softly through the stereo as they pulled away, the city flowing past in gentle waves. Inside the car, a quiet settled—soft and steady.

At the school, Grace’s son waited by the gate, backpack slung low, legs swinging with restless impatience. Grace smiled briefly, waved, and opened the minivan door.

The boy climbed into the back seat beside Peggy, big enough now to buckle himself in without help.

“So, Mommy,” he began, voice bright and eager, “today at school we made a volcano for science! I got to put the baking soda in, and it bubbled up and made a big mess. Mrs. Taylor said I was very careful.”

Grace smiled, glancing back at him. “That sounds like fun. You’re getting so responsible.”

“Yeah,” he said proudly. “I’m a big kid now. I have to be.”

Peggy’s restlessness grew as the car rolled toward her house. Grace caught the subtle signs in the rearview mirror.

“Sweetie,” she said softly to her son, “can you put the pacifier back in for Peggy?”

The boy reached out and took the pacifier from his mother’s hand. With a soft plop, he placed it gently between Peggy’s lips.

A flush of shame swept over Peggy. Relief flickered in her eyes, but beneath it all, the words baby and infant floated in her mind—labels she couldn’t shake. She felt herself shrinking—fragile and exposed—no bigger than the pacifier resting between her lips. The world around her seemed vast and overwhelming, the back seat turning into an endless space where she was small and silent.

“Mom,” the boy’s voice cut through her thoughts, serious beyond his years, “why does Peggy always need that? Is she like a baby or something?”

Peggy’s breath caught. She curled inward, wishing she could disappear, but there was nowhere to hide.

Grace’s voice was soft but firm. “She’s… special, sweetie. Sometimes people need a little extra care. Just like you need help at school, Peggy needs help too.”

The car hummed on, but Peggy’s world felt quiet and fragile, wrapped tightly around the smooth plastic pacifier between her lips.

Grace pulled into the driveway just as Zoey was finishing tidying up the mess Will had left in the garage. The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting a warm, golden glow across the room.

Peggy was buckled safely in the back seat, the pacifier nestled between her lips. Grace glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed the faint tremble of Peggy’s small hands resting on her lap—fragile, like a child trying not to draw attention.

Zoey opened Peggy’s car door and paused, a surprised flicker crossing her face as she saw the pacifier.

“Oh,” Zoey murmured, a slight edge of disbelief in her voice. “I forgot to take that out this morning.”

Grace gave a small smile, shrugging. “Morning chaos.”

The two women shared a brief look, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them.

Inside the house, Max was sprawled on the couch, absorbed in the TV, while Will sat on the floor nearby, his expression distant.

Zoey moved quickly, her routine practiced and efficient: preparing dinner, overseeing baths, then ushering her children toward bedtime.

Her voice was gentle but firm as she guided them through the evening rituals—the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders like a familiar cloak.

Grace pulled into the driveway just as Zoey was finishing tidying up the mess Will had left in the garage. The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows, bathing the room in a soft, golden light.

Peggy was still buckled safely in the back seat, the pacifier resting between her lips. Grace glanced in the rearview mirror and caught sight of Peggy’s trembling hands folded timidly in her lap—small, fragile, almost like a child trying to disappear.

Zoey opened Peggy’s door and froze for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing her face as she saw the pacifier.

“Oh,” Zoey said quietly, a trace of disbelief in her voice. “I completely forgot to take that out this morning.”

Grace smiled gently, a quiet apology in her eyes. “It was a hectic morning.”

Zoey nodded but said nothing more, already shifting into caretaker mode.

Grace’s son, freshly back from kindergarten, sat in the back—his feet dragging just a bit.

Zoey’s tone softened as she addressed him. “Did you have fun at school today?”

The boy nodded eagerly. “Yes, Ms. Zoey. I even helped Mrs. Taylor with the science project.”

Zoey’s eyes flicked briefly to Peggy, who still sat clutching her pacifier, shrinking further into herself.

“Well, that sounds like something a big kid would do,” Zoey said, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re learning to be responsible, just like you should be.”

Peggy’s heart clenched—while the boy spoke with the confident tone of someone nearly grown, she felt more like an infant trapped inside her own body.

Zoey then turned her attention back to Peggy, her voice softening into something almost tender. “Alright, little one, time for dinner and bath.”

Peggy felt herself shrink even further, the gentle command washing over her. The house was warm, but inside her, a quiet ache of vulnerability settled deeply.

“Same time tomorrow,” Grace called as she drove away.

Zoey smiled softly at Peggy. “Say bye-bye to Mrs. Jones, okay?”

Zoey lifted Peggy’s hand, waving faintly.

From behind the pacifier, one could hear Peggy whisper, “Bye-bye, Mrs. Jones.”

Inside the house, Max was sprawled on the couch, absorbed in the TV, while Will sat on the floor nearby, his expression distant and thoughtful.

Zoey moved quickly, her routine practiced and efficient—preparing dinner, overseeing baths, then guiding her charges toward bedtime with gentle but steady hands.

After dinner, Zoey gently unbuckled Peggy and Will from their chairs, encouraging them to crawl to the bathroom. The warm water filled the tub, and the two exchanged quiet glances as soft sighs escaped behind their pacifiers.

Once clean, Zoey lifted them out of the bath, wrapping each in a fluffy towel. She led them to Will’s room, where she helped them into fresh diapers, securing them snugly around their hips, then pulled soft pajamas over their heads.

“Cozy now,” Zoey murmured, smoothing the fabric over Peggy’s arms.

Next came the bedtime story—a ritual that wrapped the night in gentle calm. Zoey’s voice softened as she read, the words weaving a quiet lullaby that settled restless thoughts.

Finally, she kissed each on the forehead and tucked them under their blankets.

As she closed each bedroom door behind her, the soft click of the lock echoed through the quiet house—a small seal on the day’s close, leaving Peggy alone with the shadows and the steady beat of her own heart.

[oadbl]

Thursday – Surrender

Peggy awoke with a haze clinging to her thoughts, heavier than usual. The wind rushed through open windows; tires hummed against the pavement. She turned her head slowly—Grace was driving, calm and focused, the early morning sun casting streaks of gold across her sharp features.

How did she get here? Was this a dream?

The gentle pressure in her mouth answered her: the pacifier bobbing slowly and rhythmically between her lips. She blinked. Her flannel pajamas clung loosely to her, and then came the scent—warm, musky, unmistakably hers. Her cheeks flushed. Not a dream, then.

They pulled into Grace’s garage. No words—just practiced care—as Grace, or Mrs. Jones, as Peggy now called her in these moments, unbuckled her and helped her out of the car.

“The house is empty,” Grace said, her voice firm yet familiar. “Crawl down the hall—third door on the right. Belly down. Head up.”

Peggy nodded, the pacifier still nestled between her lips. She dropped to her hands and knees, the tiled floor cool beneath her palms. Every movement was a contradiction—humiliation and comfort, resistance and craving. She obeyed, crawling toward the open door.

The third room was prepared, clearly not her own. A soft mat covered most of the floor, low shelving held picture books and plush animals, and a mirror sat just inches from the ground. It wasn’t a child’s room—but a space intentionally created for regression. A place where she could shed the armor of her adult life.

She lowered herself slowly onto the mat, arms tucked in, chin raised just enough. Her eyes caught her reflection—messy hair, flushed face, pacifier in place. It was jarring… and yet soothing.

This was her choice. Her escape. Her surrender.

Grace stepped inside and closed the door behind her with a soft click. She knelt beside Peggy and stroked her hair.

“Good girl,” she whispered, her voice like velvet. “Just like we practiced. Holding that pretty head up so strong.”

Peggy’s chest swelled with something unfamiliar but powerful—something close to pride. Vulnerable, honest, raw.

Then Grace shifted her, firm but gentle, rolling her onto her back. The pacifier bobbed faster between Peggy’s lips as her breathing picked up—her body anticipating more, her mind too soft to form coherent thought.

“Look at me,” Grace said.

Peggy’s eyes fluttered open. Grace was sucking her own thumb now—slowly, deliberately—mirroring Peggy’s pacifier. The sight was jarring in its intimacy, maternal and carnal all at once. There was something in her gaze—protective, nurturing… and something else. A hunger she rarely let show.

The moment stretched.

Then—Peggy felt it. The pressure. The knowing touch. Not aggressive, not rushed—just precise. The kind of touch that blurred every line between being held and being owned. Her body arched lightly, breath hitching, every nerve drawn to that point of connection.

When was the last time Will, her husband, had taken the reins like this?

When was the last time she had let someone in this deeply?

She gasped, trembling, her body releasing under Grace’s hand—no words, no pretense, just pure, unfiltered surrender. And Grace didn’t break eye contact. Not once. She simply held her there, thumb still in her mouth, a quiet smile forming behind it.

When it was done, Grace exhaled slowly and leaned in.

“Zoey asked me to do this for you,” she said softly. “She said you needed it. And you do, don’t you?”

Peggy gave the faintest nod—barely more than a breath.

Grace kissed her forehead. “There we go. All better now.”

She gently lifted Peggy’s legs and moved them in a bicycle motion.

“Zoey told me you know all the words—sing it with me.”

Peggy’s voice was fragile, barely audible around the pacifier. But she obeyed.

“The wheels on the bus go round and round…”

Grace’s gentle voice joined hers, soft and steady.

When the song finished, Grace pushed Peggy’s legs a few more times, just to make sure everything came out.

In a syrupy, almost songlike cadence, Grace explained each step as she worked—moving with clinical affection, cleaning Peggy carefully while humming quietly. She cooed affirmations with every motion—pulling a fresh onesie over Peggy’s head, smoothing her hair, dabbing her cheeks, and fastening a clean, snug diaper with practiced ease.

Grace stood, hands on her hips, appraising her work.

“Alright, little miss,” she said, her voice light now. “Let’s get you dressed for your big girl day. The office won’t run itself.”

Peggy blinked up at her, still adrift, pacifier back in place. Ready—maybe not for the boardroom, not just yet—but for whatever came next.

————————————————————————————————————————— 

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains as Zoey quietly slipped out the door, her backpack slung over one shoulder. “Sorry, Peggy,” she called softly, glancing back to make sure her mom was safely in Grace’s care. “I had to get to school early today.”

Peggy gave a small, grateful nod, comforted by the knowledge that Grace was nearby.

About twenty minutes later, the door opened, and Eliza stepped inside, the soft click of her shoes on the hardwood announcing her arrival before she even spoke. Her eyes bright and alert, she took a quick, assessing glance around the room as if already mentally ticking off a checklist.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said cheerfully, her voice warm and steady. She didn’t wait for an answer; her presence alone was a kind of greeting.

Eliza moved with practiced ease, heading upstairs to check on Max. “Hey, Max! Time to get moving,” she called softly but firmly, a smile playing on her lips as footsteps echoed lightly above.

Back downstairs, she approached Will’s crib, where the little one slept peacefully, his chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. Kneeling beside him, Eliza gently brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she said loud and clear with a grin, “let’s get you ready for the day,” waking Will from his slumber.

She worked with calm, tender efficiency—moving his legs in a bicycle motion to help him release before changing his diaper with practiced hands, humming a soft tune that seemed to fit the quiet morning air perfectly. She dabbed his cheeks gently with a warm cloth, smoothing the fabric of his fresh clothes and adjusting the fit just so.

“Max, you ready?,” she called, “I’m leaving in ten if you want a ride.”

In the kitchen, Max was already putting on his shoes.

Eliza lifted Will carefully, placing him in his stroller, a pacifier never leaving his mouth, making sure he had enough liquids for the day. Then she locked the stroller’s safety latch with a soft but decisive click.

“Zoey’s orders,” she explained firmly, the tone light but final, as she and Max headed out the door.

The house settled into silence.

Will sat quietly, the physical lock on the stroller mirroring the mental cage he sometimes felt—secured, cared for, but confined.

The door shut behind them with a faint thud, leaving Will alone in his small, ordered world, locked in body and mind.

The Prefect babysitter 

Zoey slumped into the back corner of the student lounge, balancing her coffee on one knee and her phone in the other. She reread the Facebook post once before hitting “Post.”

Quote

 

Zoey Williams → Friends & Family

Hey folks!
Looking for a responsible, patient college-aged babysitter for weekday daytime supervision, starting tonight (yes, emergency situation 🙃).
Must be okay with routine enforcement, light household monitoring, and navigating... let’s say, quirky personalities.
Message me for details. Pay is solid, snacks included.
You’ll be dealing with one “dependent” — age: complicated.
#WilliamsHouseholdChronicles #NotWhatItLooksLike #YesItIsActually
👶📋🍼

 

 

Not five minutes later, her phone buzzed.

Quote

Samantha L.:
Hey Zoey! Just saw your post. If you're still looking, I’m around — flexible schedule, and I’ve got experience 😉

 

Zoey blinked. Samantha. Of course.

Samantha Lankin, thirty, daughter of their longtime neighbors, and infamously the one who used to babysit her — and Max — back when Saturday night meant popcorn and PBS Kids. She was also the first person Zoey ever saw wear eyeliner and break hearts.

And unfortunately, part of the reason Peggy had handed Zoey the metaphorical reins when she left town. Will’s “brief departure” from the firm hadn’t been as clean as he’d made it sound — and Samantha had been right in the middle of it.

Zoey started typing, then paused.

Quote

Zoey:
Hey Samantha, wow, thanks for reaching out! Appreciate it. Let me check a couple things and I’ll get back to you?

She hit send. No emoji. No heart. Neutral.

A moment later, another buzz.

Quote

Samantha:
No worries, kiddo. Happy to help out. Just let me know 💖

Zoey stared at the screen.

Kiddo.

She closed the message, took a long sip of cold coffee, and muttered, “Not even if the house is on fire.”

A few seconds later, she posted a comment under her original post.

Quote

Zoey Williams (comment):
Thanks for the quick replies, everyone — narrowing it down now. Keep them coming if you know someone awesome (and under 30 😅)

She hit post, leaned back, and sighed. Somewhere in the distance, she could practically hear Peggy’s voice:

“You’re in charge now. Just try not to burn the whole thing down.”

Too late, Zoey thought. Fire’s already smoldering.

 

5:30 PM – Arrival of the Babysitter

Zoey opened the door to reveal Samantha — Sam, her former babysitter and now, somehow, her emergency backup. She looked relaxed and glowing in the way only first-trimester hormones and people with zero idea what they were walking into could.

“Same Zoey,” Sam said with a nostalgic smile. “Just taller now. Didn’t know you had a new sibling.”

“I don’t,” Zoey replied smoothly. “Let me explain.”

Sam stepped inside, eyes adjusting to the scene — the soft lighting, a basket of neatly folded onesies, a chore chart magneted to the fridge… and Peggy, seated cross-legged on the floor, already settled into a posture of patient readiness.

“You’ll be watching my dad — Will,” Zoey said, flipping to the first page of her briefing notes. “He’s had some... behavioral setbacks.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, amused. “Okay…”

Zoey pressed on without blinking. “He crawls in shared spaces, speaks respectfully, and wears soft diapers and toddler-appropriate clothes while under supervision. Nap is at five. Bedtime’s at eight. Pacifier is used at all times unless he’s directly engaged in speaking.”

Sam stared. “So he’s a baby?”

Zoey gestured toward Peggy. “Mom is too, sometimes. It’s preventative.”

Peggy gave a serene little nod from the mat. “I remember giving Sam these same directions back when Max was a baby…” she started, wistful—

—until Sam, without breaking eye contact, reached down and gently popped a pacifier into her mouth.

“Like that?” Sam asked.

“Perfect,” Zoey replied.

Peggy blinked in exaggerated surprise, but said nothing, folding her hands neatly in her lap as the familiar rhythm took hold.

“We’ll be gone for the evening,” Zoey continued, professional as ever. “There’s a checklist on the fridge. Will should be waking up soon from quiet time. Bedtime is eight sharp.”

Sam gave a slow nod. “Got it. One regressed dad-baby to supervise. Understood.”

Zoey lingered at the door, one hand on the knob. “No mischief while we’re gone. I don’t want to come back to another timeout incident.”

Sam smirked. “Please. I’m pregnant. I put myself in timeout every afternoon.”

Zoey gave a tight smile. “Good instincts.”

Then they were gone, the door closing with a quiet click — leaving Sam in the soft, strange calm of the Williams household, the muffled creak of footsteps upstairs the only warning of what came next.

 

Waking up the baby 

Samantha slipped quietly through the hallway, clipboard tucked under one arm, and found Max in his new room, headphones on, engrossed in a video game.

“Hey, Max,” she called softly.

He glanced up, recognizing her instantly. “Sam. Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“I need the keys to your dad’s room and the bathroom,” she said with a knowing smile.

Max smirked and pulled the key ring from around his neck. “Here you go. Just don’t let him trick you into unlocking the bathroom.”

With a gentle twist, Sam opened the door and peeked inside.

There was Will, sprawled in the crib like a child who’d just been told to take a nap. The ducky blanket was half kicked off, and the pacifier dangled loosely from the side of his mouth, clipped to his soft shirt.

“Will? Time to wake up.”

His eyes fluttered open slowly, confusion clouding his gaze. He blinked several times before recognition dawned, and then surprise.

“Sam? What—what time is it?”

“It’s after six,” Sam said with a teasing smile. “Nap time’s over. You’ve got a big evening ahead.”

Will shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around him, the pacifier bobbing as he spoke.

He groaned dramatically, but there was no mistaking the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“This is humiliating.”

Sam tapped her clipboard. “Humiliating or not, there’s a schedule. Now—paci in, get on your hands and knees, and let’s get moving. I hear Max is holding the keys to your room and the bathroom, so don’t try any funny business.”

Will sighed deeply but obeyed, slipping the pacifier firmly into place before lowering himself onto all fours.

“Good boy,” Sam said cheerfully. “Now, let’s start your evening routine.”

 

Drive to the Company Dinner

Zoey gripped the steering wheel with steady hands, her eyes focused on the road ahead. The car hummed softly as her playlist filled the cabin with a mix of indie rock and mellow beats — her personal soundtrack for the evening.

In the backseat, Peggy sat quietly, the familiar pink pacifier bobbing gently between her lips. She wore polished Mary Janes and clutched a small, translucent plastic purse on her lap, clearly empty — the kind Zoey had insisted she carry for tonight.

Zoey glanced in the rearview mirror. “You’re doing great, Mom.”

Peggy gave a muffled hum of acknowledgment, her eyes flicking toward the window.

Zoey was dressed sharply — sleek blouse, tailored blazer, and jeans that made her look every bit the responsible adult she was expected to be. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, a contrast to Peggy’s somewhat childish ensemble.

As they pulled up to the venue, Zoey killed the engine and turned to face her mom.

“Alright,” she said, reaching back to gently remove the pacifier from Peggy’s mouth. “This goes in your purse for the evening.”

Peggy’s lips pursed in protest, but Zoey was firm, sliding the pacifier into the plastic purse and clipping it shut.

“Remember,” Zoey added, her tone businesslike but caring, “No pacifier while we’re inside. Keep your purse close, no fiddling with it, and absolutely no mischief.”

Peggy gave a small nod, cheeks flushing slightly — the blush of someone caught somewhere between childhood and adulthood.

Zoey opened her door, extending a hand. “Let’s make this quick and painless.”

Peggy took her daughter’s hand, standing up and smoothing her skirt. “You’re the boss.”

Zoey smiled softly. “For tonight, yeah. Let’s go.”

 

Dinner & Bed 

Back at the house, the kitchen was softly lit and quiet except for the clink of utensils and the occasional bite.

Will sat at the table in his pastel pajamas, a pacifier resting gently between his lips. Before him was a plate of toddler-friendly finger foods—soft chicken nuggets, steamed carrot sticks, and small pieces of apple.

Across from him, Samantha and Max ate their own dinner—adult-sized portions of lasagna and salad—using forks and knives with practiced ease.

Will fed himself carefully with his hands, picking up each piece slowly, his movements deliberate but unsteady.

Max glanced over, smirking. “Dad, you make finger food look like a full-on project.”

Will just grunted, focused on his meal.

Once Will finished, Samantha took a soft cloth and gently cleaned his hands and face, careful to keep his pacifier in place.

“Okay, big guy, time to get ready for bed,” she said softly.

She helped Will into his nighttime diaper and tucked him into his bed, pulling the familiar ducky blanket up to his chin.

“Story time,” Samantha announced, settling beside him with a small stack of children’s books.

Will nodded, pacifier bobbing as she read Goodnight Moon in a calm, soothing voice.

“As the cow jumped over the moon…”

By the time Samantha finished the third story, Will’s eyelids were heavy, his body relaxed and still.

Gently, Samantha took the pacifier from his mouth and pressed it softly between her own lips, sucking on it like a kid hiding candy from their parents.

Will’s eyes sparkled with quiet glee as she cradled him close, breastfeeding him tenderly. The hush between them was filled with secret joy — two toddlers hiding in plain sight, caught up in a moment they both knew was theirs alone.

Slowly, their breathing synced—calm, even, peaceful.

Will latched on, comforted by the gentle rhythm, while Samantha sucked the pacifier in time with their breaths, their bodies moving together in quiet harmony.

 

Dinner party 

As Peggy and her daughter Zoey stepped into the warmly lit restaurant, Peggy couldn’t shake the feeling that every eye in the room turned to watch them. Her polished Mary Janes tapped nervously against the floor as they were led to their reserved table—already half-filled with familiar faces from Peggy’s office.

Only two seats remained: one beside Grace Jones, Peggy’s longtime secretary, and the other next to her husband. Silently, Peggy sank into the chair next to Grace while Zoey slid in across from her without missing a beat.

When the waiter arrived, Zoey didn’t ask Peggy what she wanted. She ordered for both of them, returning the menus with quiet, assured confidence.

When the food arrived, Zoey immediately reached across the table, pulling Peggy’s plate closer. She began cutting the chicken into bite-sized pieces, deliberately setting the steak knife far out of Peggy’s reach.

Peggy flushed but said nothing.

As the meal went on, Peggy’s discomfort grew. Her legs crossed and uncrossed beneath the table. She leaned toward Zoey, voice low and hesitant. “Zoey, can you take me to the restroom?”

No response.

Peggy sighed and tried again, this time using the words she knew would trigger a reaction—even if they made her cringe. “I really need to go potty…”

Zoey looked up immediately.

Calm and collected, she flagged down a passing waitress. “Excuse me, could you escort my mom to the little girls’ room? She prefers a little help on the potty.”

Zoey reached under the table, retrieved Peggy’s pastel plastic purse, and handed it off to the waitress with a quiet, teasing warning about the pacifier inside—“just in case she misbehaves.”

As they approached the restroom, Peggy fought to reclaim some dignity. “I can go in on my own.”

The waitress gave a knowing smile. “My orders are to stay with you the entire time.” Peggy opened her mouth to protest but stopped when the pacifier was clipped to her shirt. When Peggy refused help washing her hands, the pacifier went straight into her mouth.

Frozen for a moment, cheeks flaming, Peggy retreated from the bathroom, pacifier firmly in place.

Back at the table, Zoey was finishing her drink.

“What’d she do?” Zoey asked the waitress casually, not even glancing up.

The waitress leaned in and murmured discreetly in Zoey’s ear, just loud enough over the soft clink of cutlery and murmured conversation.

“She tried to take the pacifier out more than once but gave up after I held her hands under the faucet a little longer than she liked. Hands are very clean now.”

Zoey nodded, satisfied, then finally met her mother’s gaze. Peggy, still flushed, stared down at the remnants of her meal, shoulders tense and trembling.

“Well,” Zoey said coolly, folding her napkin with precise calm, “I guess I can either feed you… or we call dinner finished. Your choice.”

Peggy hesitated. Her eyes flicked around the table—Grace Jones turned politely away, pretending to check her phone, while others were deeply engrossed in their own conversations. But Peggy could feel their awareness lingering, as if they were all silently watching.

The pacifier clipped to her blouse bobbed lightly with each breath—a pastel symbol of who was in charge.

With shaky fingers, Peggy reached for her fork.

Before she could grasp it, Zoey’s voice cut in—low, firm, uncompromising.

“No.”

Peggy froze, eyes wide, meeting her daughter’s steady gaze. Zoey reached across the table without hesitation and plucked the fork from her hand.

“You don’t get to hold sharp things, remember?” Zoey said evenly, placing the fork beside her own plate. “If you’re still sucking on a pacifier, you’re not ready for big-girl tools.”

Peggy opened her mouth to argue, but the pacifier hanging at her collar swayed mockingly, silencing her. All that escaped was a soft, frustrated whimper, barely audible above the clatter of dishes.

Somewhere at the table, a quiet chuckle rose—unrelated, but in Peggy’s mind it rang out like confirmation: yes, they noticed. Yes, they were watching.

Peggy’s lips pressed tight as Zoey held the fork inches from her face. The pacifier had just been unclipped and set aside—temporarily—but its absence only made Peggy feel more exposed, not less.

“Mommy,” Zoey warned, her tone clipped and sharp.

Peggy’s heart stuttered—Zoey hadn’t called her “mommy” in years. Now, in this moment, the word cut sharper than any reprimand.

Still, Peggy stayed silent. Her lips trembled with resistance; her eyes darted nervously to the neighboring tables. She could see Grace stiffen beside her, forcing a polite indifference.

Zoey sighed softly, then smiled—patient, maddeningly calm.

“Alright,” she said sweetly, raising the fork with a playful flourish, “we can do it the fun way.”

Then, without warning, Zoey stood and reached out. “Come here, mommy.”

Peggy hesitated, cheeks flaming, but Zoey’s steady gaze left no room to refuse.

Zoey pulled Peggy into her lap, settling her firmly but gently, as if rocking a child. The murmurs and glances around the room seemed to blur away.

She made a gentle loop in the air with the fork and began making soft, playful engine sounds.

“Vrrrooooom… here comes the airplane,” she cooed in a singsong voice, like a preschool teacher entertaining a toddler. “Coming in for a landing…”

Peggy’s eyes widened in horror, hands twitching helplessly in her lap.

“Open up, mommy,” Zoey said cheerfully, moving the fork closer, “or we’ll have to circle back around. You know how cranky the pilot gets when there’s a delay.”

Muffled chuckles rippled down the table—someone had definitely heard.

Red flushing all the way to her ears, Peggy parted her lips just enough for Zoey to slip the bite between them like a reward. Zoey gently tapped her chin.

“Good girl,” she said with maddening calm.

Peggy chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the tablecloth, wishing desperately she could disappear beneath it.

Zoey had prepped the next bite before Peggy finished this one.

When the last bite was swallowed, Zoey gently leaned Peggy’s head against her chest and began to rub her back with practiced care.

After a moment, Zoey burped her softly—a quiet, babyish sound—and Peggy’s eyes fluttered wide as a small spit of food escaped at the corner of her mouth.

Zoey quickly caught it with a napkin, smiling tenderly down at Peggy before replacing the pacifier back in place.

“There we go,” she stated matter of factly. “All done now.”

Peggy’s cheeks burned, but beneath the embarrassment was a strange, settling calm.

 

Car ride home 

It was only 10 PM—well past her usual 7:30/8:00pm bedtime—but Peggy felt like she’d been awake for days. Her limbs were leaden, her thoughts thick with fog, and the evening’s events clung to her like static—prickly and impossible to shake. Every glance, every half-suppressed laugh from the restaurant echoed in her mind. She couldn’t decide what embarrassed her more: the way Zoey had spoken for her, or how unnervingly natural it all felt.

And yet, beneath the humiliation, something else stirred.

Pride.

Not in herself—that had been chipped away, piece by piece, over the course of dinner.

But in Zoey.

Peggy rocked slightly on her heels, the pacifier clipped to her blouse bobbing lightly in her mouth—a constant, awkward presence she couldn’t remove. Beside her, Zoey towered, taller and broader than Peggy remembered, her confident posture casting a shadow both protective and commanding.

When the valet pulled up with the car, Zoey didn’t miss a beat.

“The baby seat’s in the back,” she said flatly—not cruelly, just matter-of-factly—as if there were no point in pretending anymore.

The engine rumbled to life, and so did the music.

Not Zoey’s usual ambient playlists or moody synth-pop.

Preschool songs.

Full volume. Windows down.

The first notes of “The Wheels on the Bus” blasted through the speakers like an airhorn, rattling the windows. Peggy flinched, hands flying up to cover her ears, but Zoey shot her a quick glance and shook her head with a warning.

“Ah-ah. You know the words,” she said, gently scolding a sulky toddler.

Peggy’s cheeks burned in the darkened car. She stared out the window—thankfully unseen—but the pacifier was already back in her mouth. Muffled behind it, her lips formed clumsy shapes around the rubber.

“...da wheelsh on da bush go woun’ an’ woun’...”

Zoey smiled.

“Louder, please. I want to hear that lisp all the way home.”

Suddenly, Peggy’s head dipped; her eyelids fluttered closed.

Zoey reached over and nudged her gently. “Hey, Mommy, keep singing,” she softly but firmly, reaching over string Peggy awake.

Peggy blinked, flushed and exhausted. The pacifier bobbed with her shallow breaths as she fought the pull of sleep.

Zoey’s hand settled on Peggy’s leg, steady and warm. “You’re doing great. Don’t fall asleep on me now.”

In the cool night air rushing through the open windows, the two of them remained suspended between quiet exhaustion and secret joy—mother and daughter locked in a whispered world, far from the eyes and judgments of the world outside.

Encoure 
 

Back Home 

Before they stepped inside, Zoey turned to Peggy with a quiet but firm expression—soft, yet unmistakably commanding.
“Now, you have to be very, very quiet, okay?” she said gently, as if speaking to a small child. “You’ll stay right in that corner until I come for you, alright? Can you do that for me?”

Peggy blinked, swallowing the lump rising in her throat. She wanted to ask Zoey to carry her—like she used to when Zoey was little—but the words stuck. Instead, she nodded slowly, feeling strangely small and fragile.

Zoey’s lips curved into a brief, patient smile. “Good girl.”

They crossed the threshold together. Peggy hesitated, her voice barely a whisper.
“Zoey… can you just carry me? I’m so tired…”

Zoey shook her head firmly, yet gently.
“Nope. You’ve got to stay awake as long as possible. Crawling will help with that. Come on.”

They moved silently through the house until they reached the far corner of the living room. Zoey pointed quietly.
“There. Stay right there until I come for you.”

---

Zoey found Samantha sleeping peacefully in Will’s crib. The soft rise and fall of her chest was gentle in the dim light. A pastel pacifier bobbed lightly in her mouth, her lips closed softly around it as if it were a lifeline. Will was still latched to her breast, eyes half-closed but sparkling with quiet contentment.

Zoey paused, watching them both with a mixture of curiosity and something deeper—a spark of realization. For a moment, she hesitated, unsure what to do next. Then her thoughts sharpened.

Samantha was the reason Zoey was in charge.

It all traced back to her father’s affair—the secret that cracked open their family’s façade, the fracture that gave Zoey the leverage and control she had so carefully claimed. That betrayal, hidden beneath layers of lies, had shaped this moment, this power shift.

Now, standing there quietly, Zoey felt the weight—and the thrill—of her new role. No longer just a daughter or a girl trying to hold things together. She was becoming something more: Queen Zoey Williams.

A slow, steady smile spread across her lips as she looked down at Samantha and Will, still suspended in their shared world of innocence and trust.

The past was behind her. The future belonged to her.

With quiet confidence, Zoey stepped forward.

With a commanding and cold voice she stirred Samantha awake -- “Time to wake up, Your Majesty,” 

Samantha blinking, the pacifier still between her lips, her hand lodged down in Will diaper, her pants stained . 

They both knew this was just the beginning.