Mommy Mei Fly - Version B1

Chapter 1
Mommy Mei Fly - Version B1

-- Maternal Regression --

Character: Mei

A 29-year-old former dancer of Chinese-American heritage who has always taken pride in defying stereotypes with her curvy figure. Perfectionistic and image-conscious, Mei struggles with the gap between her idealized vision of motherhood and her current reality. Her determination can be both her greatest strength and weakness as she navigates this challenging transition. She doesn’t love her man flirting with the wet nurse, but she doesn’t mind being babied by her employee.

Background:

You've always prided yourself on perfection. As a former dancer with an enviable, curvy physique that defied stereotypes about your Asian heritage, you married well and created the picture-perfect life. Your pregnancy was meticulously planned, your delivery scheduled precisely, and your nursery designed with magazine-worthy attention to detail.

But nature had other plans. Despite your determination and research, your body has betrayed you in the most fundamental way - you cannot produce enough milk for your newborn. The pediatrician suggested formula, but you refused outright. Your own mother used formula, and you've always blamed that choice for what you perceive as your emotional distance. Your child will have better.

After weeks of struggling, sleep deprivation, and your baby's concerning weight chart, you've made a difficult decision. You've hired help - a young nursing student from your building who advertised her services as a wet nurse. It feels like admitting defeat, but you tell yourself it's temporary. Just until your own milk comes in properly.

Amber stands in your doorway, her honey-blonde hair catching the afternoon light streaming through your meticulously designed living room windows. Your eyes involuntarily trace the curves visible beneath her thin cotton top, and something twists inside you—a knot of inadequacy tangled with an unexpected flutter of arousal.

"Hi, Mrs. Chen," she says, extending a hand. "Thanks so much for this opportunity. I've been studying lactation science extensively in my program."

You take her hand, noticing how soft it is compared to your own, which have grown dry from constant washing between diaper changes. "Please, call me Mei," you manage, your voice higher than intended.

Your husband David appears from the hallway, the baby monitor clipped to his belt. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of Amber, and he runs a hand through his disheveled hair before extending it to her.

"David Chen," he says, his voice carrying a warmth you haven't heard in weeks. "We're really grateful you're here. Mei's been having a tough time."

You feel your cheeks burn. "I was just about to explain my expectations," you say sharply, then falter as both turn to look at you. The carefully rehearsed speech dissolves on your tongue.

"I—I've prepared a schedule," you continue, gesturing toward the color-coded chart on the refrigerator. "And there's a list of—"

A thin, reedy cry emanates from the baby monitor, cutting through your explanation. Your breasts ache in pavlovian response, though you know they hold nothing substantial to offer.

"That's perfect timing," Amber says with easy confidence. "Would you like me to show you how I work?"

Before you can answer, David nods enthusiastically. "Yes, please. Mei's been up all night trying."

The three of you move toward the nursery, a room you spent months perfecting. Your daughter's cries intensify as you enter, her tiny face red with effort. You reach for her automatically, but Amber steps forward.

"May I?" she asks, though she's already lifting your daughter with practiced ease. "Hello, beautiful," she coos. "I'm Amber, and I'm going to help your mommy take care of you."

You watch, frozen, as Amber settles into the glider rocker you selected from an exclusive boutique. She unbuttons her top with casual efficiency, revealing a nursing bra that's clearly seen use. Your daughter, who has been rejecting your breast for days, latches immediately to Amber's exposed nipple.

"Oh," Amber sighs with satisfaction, looking up at you with a smile that's both sympathetic and triumphant. "She was just so hungry. Poor little thing."

David stands beside you, his hand on your shoulder, but his eyes are fixed on the tableau before you: another woman feeding your child, in your carefully curated nursery, while you stand uselessly by.

"See?" he whispers, squeezing your shoulder. "This is exactly what we needed."

You nod mechanically, unable to articulate the complex cocktail of relief, jealousy, and something darker stirring within you as you watch Amber stroke your daughter's cheek with a tenderness that matches your own.

You move closer to Amber, perching on the ottoman beside the glider rocker. The proximity allows you to catch her scent—something clean and floral that makes you feel simultaneously matronly and juvenile.

"Would you mind showing me what you're doing?" you ask, your voice straining for casual professionalism. "I've tried everything, but nothing seems to work for me."

Amber's eyes light up with what appears to be genuine enthusiasm. "Of course! I'd love to help." She shifts slightly, angling your daughter's tiny body so you can see better. "See how her mouth covers most of the areola, not just the nipple? That's key."

You nod, studying the technique while trying to ignore the intimacy of the moment—this stranger's exposed breast in your home, your husband watching with undisguised interest from the doorway.

"When it's your turn," Amber continues, her tone sliding into something gentler, almost maternal despite her youth, "we'll try a different position. Your breasts are..." she pauses, eyes flicking over your chest with clinical assessment that somehow feels more invasive than if she'd been leering, "shaped differently than mine. You might have better luck with the football hold."

David clears his throat. "Mei's tried everything. The lactation consultant at the hospital said—"

"That I wasn't relaxing enough," you finish sharply, heat rising to your face. "As if I could just flip a switch."

Amber's free hand reaches out, patting yours with cool fingers. "Stress is the enemy of milk production. When we try later, maybe David could give you a shoulder massage while you feed? Sometimes that helps new mommies."

The infantilizing term 'mommies' lands like a slap. You're nearly thirty, a professional woman who's choreographed dance productions and managed budgets, yet in this realm, you're reduced to an incompetent novice.

"I'm not sure—" you begin, but your daughter chooses that moment to unlatch, milk dribbling from her tiny mouth as she turns her head toward your voice. The sight of her recognition pierces you—she knows you, wants you, even as her sustenance comes from elsewhere.

"Look at that," Amber coos. "She heard her mama. Do you want to try now, Mei? She's taken the edge off her hunger."

Before you can answer, she's already shifting forward, gently transferring your daughter to your arms. You fumble with your nursing top, aware of both Amber and David watching as you expose your swollen, inadequate breast.

Your daughter latches, then immediately pulls away, her face screwing up in frustration.

"Here," Amber says, leaning close enough that her hair brushes your shoulder. Her hands move to your breast without hesitation, her fingers repositioning your nipple near your daughter's mouth. "Like this."

The casual way she touches you—as if your body is community property now—sends a confusing ripple through you: indignation tangled with a strange surrender.

Your daughter latches again and begins to suck, but you can feel the difference. With Amber, she drew deeply, rhythmically. With you, it's shallow, searching, ultimately futile.

"She's trying," Amber says encouragingly, but her tone carries the unmistakable note of pity. "That's progress!"

David steps closer, his hand landing on your shoulder. "You're doing great, honey," he says, but his eyes flick to Amber for confirmation.

You sit there, trapped between them, your body failing at its most primal function while this younger, more capable woman witnesses your inadequacy with kindness that cuts deeper than cruelty ever could.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the nursery feels with the three of you crowded around your daughter. "Maybe we should move to the living room," you suggest, your voice straining for authority. "It might be easier for me to try again there. More... space."

Amber's brow furrows slightly, her lips pursing as she adjusts your daughter against her breast. "Actually, babies feed better in quiet, familiar environments. The nursery is perfect—you've created such a soothing space here."

You look to David, expecting support, but find him nodding along with Amber's assessment.

"She's right, Mei," he says, his voice taking on that placating tone he uses when he thinks you're being irrational. "Remember what Dr. Patel said about consistency and routine?"

The betrayal stings more than it should. You swallow the argument rising in your throat and nod, defeated by their united front.

"Why don't you sit here?" Amber pats the rocking chair beside her. "You can watch how she feeds for the rest of this session. It might help you get a better sense of what works."

You sink into the chair, oddly grateful for the direction. Amber shifts slightly, angling your daughter so you can see her tiny mouth working against the breast that isn't yours. The sight awakens something primitive in you—jealousy tangled with a strange, humiliating relief that someone else can provide what you cannot.

"Your nursery is absolutely adorable," Amber says, her eyes scanning the room. "All this pink and the ballerina theme—those dancing baby girls with their diapers showing under their tutus. And so many stuffed animals!"

You follow her gaze around the room you spent months perfecting—the hand-painted mural of baby ballerinas dancing with teddy bears and bunnies, their cloth diapers peeking beneath frilly skirts. The collection of plush toys arranged on shelves, waiting for a child old enough to appreciate them.

"It's almost as if a baby designed it for herself," Amber says with a light laugh. Then she catches herself. "Well, a toddler, I mean. Newborns can't play with stuffies, or dance." She looks down, her voice softening to a coo. "Can they, sweetness?"

The endearment hangs in the air between you. You're not entirely sure if she's speaking to your daughter or to you, and you're disturbed by how much you crave either possibility.

"Mei designed everything herself," David offers proudly. "She spent weeks on that mural."

Heat crawls up your neck as Amber's eyes widen slightly. "Really? That's impressive. It has such a... childlike quality to it. So innocent."

The compliment feels backhanded, highlighting the disconnect between your professional, adult self and this nursery that suddenly seems to reveal more about your psyche than you intended. You shift uncomfortably in the rocking chair, acutely aware of how the motion mimics the way Amber is swaying with your child.

Amber's question catches you off-guard, your eyes drawn to the ballerina mural you spent weeks perfecting. The tiny dancers in their tutus suddenly seem to mock you with their perfect arabesques.

"I... tried," you admit, your voice smaller than intended. "I took lessons from age four to sixteen, but I wasn't built for it. Too curvy, even back then."

Amber's eyes widen with exaggerated sympathy, her free hand reaching to touch your arm. "Oh, sweetie, that must have been so hard for you. All those skinny girls in their leotards making you feel different."

The condescension in her tone makes your chest tighten. You're not a child to be pitied, you're a grown woman with accomplishments. You straighten your spine.

"I actually went on to become a choreographer," you say, hearing the defensive edge in your voice. "I've designed productions for the regional ballet company and several modern dance troupes. My last piece before my maternity leave was featured in—"

"So now you tell the babies and bears how to dance," Amber interrupts with a bright smile, nodding toward your mural. "Sounds like fun!"

David chuckles, oblivious to how she's infantilized your career. "Mei's incredibly talented. You should see some of her videos."

"I'd love to!" Amber coos, but her attention has already shifted back to your daughter, who's beginning to fuss. "I think someone needs a diaper change. Would you like me to handle it, or would you prefer to do it, Mei?"

The question feels like a test. Of course you should change your own child's diaper, but the way Amber phrases it—as if she's offering to spare you a chore—makes you hesitate.

"I can do it," you say, reaching for your daughter.

Amber transfers her with practiced ease, but as your baby settles against your chest, she whispers, "The changing pad is on the dresser, and the wipes should be warmed first. Babies hate cold wipes."

You know this. You've been changing diapers for weeks. Yet somehow, under Amber's watchful eye, you feel like you're being evaluated, your every move subject to critique.

As you lay your daughter down on the changing pad, Amber hovers nearby, rebuttoning her top with casual efficiency. "You know," she says conversationally, "I had dreams of being a doctor, but nursing school is probably more my speed. We can't all be what we dreamed of as little girls, can we?"

The parallel she's drawing is unmistakable—both of you, settling for less than your childhood ambitions. Except she's framing her nursing career as a reasonable compromise while positioning your choreography as a childish consolation prize.

"Some of us find better dreams," you reply, focusing on securing the clean diaper rather than meeting her gaze.

David, still leaning against the doorframe, smiles fondly. "Mei's always been good at adapting. Remember when you twisted your ankle before that showcase in college? You redesigned the whole piece in a weekend."

The memory of your resilience should bolster you, but instead, it highlights how far you've fallen from that determined young woman. Now you can't even feed your own child without assistance.

You pass your daughter back to Amber with an automatic gesture that surprises even you—as if she's the rightful holder of this tiny life you created. Your hands feel suddenly empty, purposeless without the weight of your child.

"Look at what a good job Mommy did," Amber coos to your daughter, her voice pitched high in baby talk. "Yes she did, such a clean diaper! Mommy Mei is learning so fast!"

The words land like tiny barbs under your skin. You're not the one learning; you're the one who read every parenting book, who designed this nursery, who carried this child for nine months. Yet somehow, in Amber's presence, you've become the novice.

"I have so many tips for new Mommy Mei," Amber continues, bouncing your daughter gently. "Little tricks I've learned from all my childcare experience. We'll have you feeling more confident in no time."

David beams at this, as if Amber has offered you both a priceless gift rather than a thinly veiled critique of your maternal abilities. You catch his eye and tilt your head toward the hallway, a silent request for privacy.

"We'll be right back," you tell Amber, who nods and continues whispering to your daughter.

In the hallway, you keep your voice low but urgent. "David, I don't want this woman in our home. There's something about her that feels... wrong."

His face falls, exhaustion etching deeper lines around his eyes. "Mei, please. You've been running yourself into the ground. You're exhausted, you're frustrated, and it's affecting both of us." He takes your hands in his, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. "You deserve to be pampered a little. Let someone else handle the hard parts for a while."

The word 'pampered' sends an electric current through you. Unbidden, an image forms in your mind: yourself, small and helpless, cradled in Amber's arms. Your lips seeking her breast, latching with the same instinctive hunger as your daughter. The vision is so vivid you can almost taste the warm sweetness, feel the comforting weight of her breast against your cheek.

Heat floods your face as the fantasy dissipates, leaving confusion in its wake. What is wrong with you? You're a grown woman, a professional, a mother—not an infant seeking comfort from a stranger's body.

"Mei?" David's voice pulls you back. "Are you okay? You look flushed."

"I'm fine," you lie, unable to meet his eyes. "Just tired."

"Exactly my point," he says, squeezing your hands. "Let's give her a chance. Just for a week or two, until you're feeling more like yourself."

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. The image of being nursed by Amber lingers at the edges of your consciousness, both disturbing and oddly compelling. You tell yourself it's just exhaustion playing tricks on your mind, nothing more.

"Okay," you finally agree. "We'll try her out."

Three days have passed in a blur of feedings, naps, and a gradual shift in your household's dynamic that you can't quite pinpoint but feel acutely. You sit on the couch, watching Amber move through your space with the confidence of someone who belongs here far more than you do.

"Look who's ready for Daddy to come home," Amber coos to your daughter, who's freshly bathed and dressed in a onesie you don't recognize—pale pink with tiny ballerinas printed across it. "Yes, we're all excited to see Daddy, aren't we?"

The way she says "Daddy"—warm, respectful, intimate—contrasts sharply with how she refers to you when your daughter is present. "Mommy might want to hold you while I finish dinner," she says, her voice taking on that slightly lilting, almost teasing quality when she says "Mommy."

She hands you your daughter, who settles against your chest with a contented sigh. This small victory—your child actually wanting your touch—feels disproportionately significant after days of watching her prefer Amber's arms.

"I made that pasta you like, Mei," Amber says, the words coming out quickly, almost sounding like "Mei Mei"—a childish nickname that makes you feel inexplicably small. "The one with the little bow-ties. Thought it might be fun."

Your eyes follow her to the kitchen, where she moves with practiced efficiency. She's wearing an apron you didn't know you owned, tied neatly around her slender waist. In three days, she's reorganized your kitchen, established a feeding schedule for your daughter that actually works, and somehow managed to keep the apartment cleaner than it's been since before your pregnancy.

"Oh, I meant to ask," she says, gesturing toward a ballerina figurine on your bookshelf with a wooden spoon. "Is that a Degas reproduction? It's adorable."

You nod, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You'd forgotten how many ballet-themed items you've collected over the years—the figurines, the framed prints, the coffee mug with worn pink slippers painted on its side.

"I've always loved ballet," you say, hating how defensive you sound.

"It's so sweet," Amber replies, her tone making the word 'sweet' sound like 'childish.' "I'm noticing all these lovely ballerina things around your home. It's like living in a little girl's dream."

The front door opens before you can respond. David enters, looking more rested than he has in weeks.

"Something smells amazing," he says, his eyes finding Amber first, then shifting to you and the baby.

"Auntie Amber made your favorite pasta," she says to your daughter, though clearly for David's benefit. The way she says 'Auntie'—confident, authoritative—makes it sound like a title rather than a term of endearment.

"You're a lifesaver," David tells her, setting down his briefcase. "Mei, how was your day?"

You open your mouth to answer, but Amber interjects. "She had a nice long nap this afternoon while I took care of everything. Didn't you, Mei?"

The question hangs in the air, infantilizing and yet somehow tempting. You did nap—longer than intended—and woke to find laundry folded, dinner started, and your daughter happily playing on her mat under Amber's watchful eye.

"I was tired," you admit, the words feeling like a confession of inadequacy.

You desperately remind yourself that the 22-year-old Amber is practically a baby compared to you, and not even a mother.  The image of Amber as a toddler blooms in your mind with startling clarity—her honey-blonde hair wispy and fine, chubby legs wobbling as she bangs on pots on the kitchen floor with wooden spoons, the pink dress riding up to reveal a thick diaper. The fantasy feels like revenge, reducing this woman who infantilizes you to an actual infant herself.

But the fantasy warps, disturbs itself. The toddler looks up at you with adult eyes, Amber's voice emerging from the baby's mouth. "Mei. Mei? Hello, is Mommy still in there?"

You blink, reality reasserting itself. Amber stands before you, head tilted in concern, your daughter now resting in a bouncer nearby.

"Y-yes?" you stammer, disoriented by how easily your mind slipped away.

"Would you like to help set the table, Mei? It'd be a big help to me." Her tone is warm, encouraging—the way one might speak to a child being given their first chore.

You rise from the couch, oddly eager to please. "Of course."

In the dining area, your hands move with muscle memory—forks on the left, knives and spoons on the right. You remember standing on a step stool in your childhood home, your mother guiding your small hands through the same motions.

"Perfect," Amber praises as she brings out serving dishes. "You're such a good helper."

The compliment shouldn't matter—you're a grown woman, a professional choreographer, a mother—but warmth blooms in your chest anyway. You catch your reflection in the decorative mirror hanging on the dining room wall and for a disorienting moment, you see yourself as a child—six years old, hair in pigtails, wearing a pink romper covered in dancing ballerinas. The image feels right somehow, comfortable in a way your adult self hasn't in months.

"Mei?" David's voice breaks the spell. He's standing in the doorway, watching you with a curious expression. "You okay?"

"Just tired," you reply automatically, the adult mask slipping back into place. But part of you mourns its loss, that brief respite from decision-making, from the weight of your own expectations.

"Dinner's ready!" Amber announces, carrying a steaming dish to the table. "David, would you mind getting Mei a glass of water? She seems a little spacey tonight."

Your husband nods, moving to fill a glass without questioning why Amber is directing him in your home, or why you need someone to get you water. You should object, assert yourself, but the words die in your throat. It's easier this way. Easier to let them handle things.

"Here you go, honey," David says, setting the water before you. You notice he's given you the cup with the cartoon ballerinas on it—the one you bought on impulse and kept hidden in the back of the cupboard, embarrassed by your own childish taste.

Amber notices too, her lips curving in a knowing smile. "That's perfect for her, isn't it?"

You take a sip, avoiding their eyes, unsure which is more disturbing—that they see you this way, or that some part of you likes it.

You shift uncomfortably in your dining chair, the hard surface making you fidget. Amber notices immediately.

"Here, let me get you a cushion," she offers, already rising from her seat before you can protest. She returns with a decorative throw pillow from the couch, sliding it beneath you with practiced efficiency.

The cushion feels plush and comforting, but as you settle onto it, you realize your feet no longer quite reach the floor. They dangle slightly, toes barely brushing the hardwood. The sensation is disorienting—your body suddenly smaller in a space designed for adults.

"Better?" Amber asks, her smile warm but knowing.

You clear your throat, determined to reclaim some authority in your own home. "I'll serve," you announce, reaching for the pasta serving spoon before either of them can react.

Your movements are deliberate as you portion out the bow-tie pasta onto each plate, starting with David's. "I was thinking about my last choreography project before maternity leave," you say, your voice pitched slightly higher than normal. "The director of the regional ballet company called yesterday. They want me to consider a guest position for their winter showcase."

The lie slips out easily—no such call came—but you need to remind them both of your professional identity, your worth beyond these walls.

"That's nice, honey," David says absently, his attention already shifting to Amber. "How was the baby's feeding schedule today?"

"Oh, we had a breakthrough!" Amber responds enthusiastically. "I've been tracking her hunger cues, and I think we've finally established a pattern."

You sit there, serving spoon still in hand, as they discuss your daughter as if you're not present. The cushion beneath you feels suddenly infantilizing, your professional accomplishment—even the fabricated one—dismissed like a child's drawing proudly displayed on a refrigerator.

"David," Amber continues, "tell me about your presentation today. You mentioned it was important?"

Your husband launches into an animated description of his workday, something he hasn't shared with you in weeks. Amber leans forward, nodding at all the right moments, asking insightful questions that draw him out further.

"I want more pasta," you interrupt, the words bursting from you with childish abruptness. Your plate is still half-full, the bow-ties you've barely touched glistening with sauce.

The conversation halts. David blinks at you, confusion creasing his brow. Amber's response is smoother, more practiced.

"Of course, Mei," she says gently. "But maybe finish what's on your plate first? We don't want to waste food."

The correction is mild, reasonable—exactly how one might address a child's impulsive demand. What disturbs you most is not her tone but how natural it feels to be spoken to this way, how some part of you responds to the gentle boundary-setting with relief rather than indignation.

"I'm not hungry anymore," you mutter, pushing the plate away slightly, aware of how petulant the gesture appears but unable to stop yourself.

David sighs, exchanging a look with Amber that speaks volumes—the weary parent and the understanding caregiver, united in managing a difficult child. And that child, somehow, is you.

Annoyed, your hand moves with deliberate slowness toward your water glass—the childish ballerina cup that David selected for you. With a quick flick of your wrist, you send it toppling, water cascading across the table and spilling onto Amber's lap.

The reaction is immediate. David jumps up, napkin in hand, while Amber gasps as the cold water soaks through her shorts.

"Mei!" David's voice holds more shock than anger. "What the hell?"

You'd expected satisfaction—forcing them to acknowledge you, disrupting their cozy dynamic—but instead, heat rushes to your face as shame washes over you. The gesture feels pathetically juvenile, exactly what a toddler would do when ignored at the dinner table.

Amber recovers quickly, dabbing at her wet clothes with a napkin. "It's fine, David. Just an accident." Her voice is measured, but her eyes when they meet yours are knowing. She sees through you completely.

"I'll get paper towels," David mutters, heading to the kitchen.

Amber leans across the table, her voice dropping to a whisper only you can hear. "Is that what you need, Mei? To make messes so someone will clean up after you?" The question isn't mocking—it's probing, almost clinical in its precision.

Before you can respond, David returns with a roll of paper towels. As he mops up the spill, Amber rises to help, the two of them working in tandem while you sit uselessly, the cushion beneath you now feeling like a high chair.

"Maybe we should get you something more... secure to drink from," Amber suggests, her tone light but loaded. "A sippy cup would be practical."

David chuckles, the sound piercing you. "Or one of those bottles with the rubber tops. Wouldn't that be easier?"

They're joking, but the undercurrent is unmistakable—they're discussing you as if you're not present, as if you're the second child in the household.

Humiliation burns through you. You push back from the table, chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. "I'm going to my room," you announce, the words sounding childish even to your own ears.

"Mei, come on," David sighs. "It was just a joke."

But as you turn to leave, your foot catches on the table leg. You stumble, catching yourself against the wall, but not before knocking a framed photo to the floor. The glass cracks—a spider web fracture across your smiling face in the wedding portrait.

"Jesus, Mei," David says, exasperation replacing concern. "What's gotten into you?"

Amber is already kneeling to pick up the broken frame, her efficiency highlighting your clumsiness. "It's okay," she soothes, though it's unclear whether she's speaking to you or David. "We're all tired. Why don't you go rest, Mei? I'll clean this up and take care of the dishes."

The suggestion—reasonable, practical—leaves you feeling hollowed out. You wanted to provoke a reaction, to assert yourself through chaos, but instead, you've only reinforced their perception of you as unstable, childish, in need of management.

You flee to the bedroom, the sound of their voices—lower now, conspiratorial—following you down the hallway.

You slam the bedroom door behind you, fumbling with the lock until it clicks into place. The sound of it—that tiny mechanical barrier between you and them—offers a momentary sense of control that crumbles as soon as you collapse onto the edge of the bed.

You meant to cry—to release the confusion and hurt in a cleansing torrent of tears—but they won't come. Instead, your chest heaves with dry, painful sobs that leave you gasping. Your reflection in the vanity mirror across the room is a stranger: hair disheveled, eyes wide and glassy, mouth twisted in anguish.

"What's happening to me?" you whisper to the empty room.

A soft knock at the door makes you flinch.

"Mei?" It's David, his voice hesitant. "Come on, honey. Open up."

You press your palms against your eyes. "I need some time."

"The baby needs you," he says, the words like a knife between your ribs. "Amber says she's hungry again."

Of course. Not 'I need you' or 'Let's talk about what's wrong.' The baby needs you—or rather, needs Amber, who apparently can't proceed without your permission. A formality.

"Tell her to go ahead," you call back, voice breaking. "She doesn't need me for that."

Silence from the hallway, then a murmured conversation you can't quite make out. You imagine them standing close, heads bent together, discussing what to do about you.

"Mei." David's voice again, firmer now. "You're being childish. Come out and talk to us."

Childish. The word echoes in your mind, a perfect distillation of how they see you. Not a mother struggling with her place, not a woman fighting to maintain her identity—just a child having a tantrum.

"I said I need time!" Your voice rises, cracking on the last word.

Another pause, then: "Fine. Take all the time you need."

His footsteps retreat down the hallway. You've won this small battle, but the victory feels hollow. Alone in your bedroom—your sanctuary that suddenly feels like a prison—you curl into yourself, knees drawn to chest.

The tears finally come, but they bring no relief. Each sob feels like surrender, not release. You're crying not just for the role you're losing, but for the part of yourself that's beginning to accept its loss—the part that finds comfort in being small, in being cared for, in abdicating the crushing responsibility of motherhood.

What terrifies you most isn't that they're pushing you into this role.

It's that some buried part of you wants it.

You lock yourself in the bedroom, the sobs finally subsiding as a dangerous clarity takes hold. In the ensuing silence, you study your reflection in the vanity mirror—eyes puffy, hair disheveled, looking nothing like the confident dancer who once commanded stages. Something has to change.

With deliberate movements, you open your makeup drawer, selecting products you haven't touched since before the birth. The ritual of application steadies you—foundation smoothing away the blotchiness of tears, eyeliner defining the eyes that have lost their spark, and finally, a deep crimson lipstick that feels like armor.

"I'm still me," you whisper to your reflection.

You slide open your lingerie drawer, fingers trailing over silk and lace before selecting a pink babydoll nightie with delicate ribbon trim. It's both innocent and provocative—childlike in color but revealing in cut. Your postpartum curves fill it differently than before, spilling over edges designed for your dancer's body.

Strangely, you like the contrast—the softness against the sexuality. Standing before the full-length mirror, you turn sideways, assessing. You look like a woman playing at being a girl, or perhaps a girl playing at being a woman. The confusion of it excites you.

When David knocks again, you don't answer—you simply unlock the door and step back, letting him find you.

"Mei?" He stops short in the doorway, his irritation evaporating at the sight of you. "Jesus."

"The baby's asleep?" you ask, your voice deliberately lower than usual.

"Amber's with her." His eyes track down your body, lingering on the places where flesh meets fabric.

"Good." You move toward him, pressing your painted lips against his neck. "I need you to remind me who I am."

He doesn't ask what you mean—his body responds to yours with an urgency that requires no explanation. His hands find your waist, your hips, pulling you against him with a desperation that matches your own.

You fall onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and purpose. As he moves inside you, you close your eyes, imagining him not just as your husband but as something more primal—a protector, a guardian. The word forms in your mind before you can censor it.

"Yes, Daddy," you gasp, the forbidden word escaping your lips as pleasure crests through you. "Please, Daddy, yes!"

David's rhythm falters for a moment, surprised, then accelerates. The taboo seems to ignite something in him—his grip tightens, his movements become more commanding.

"That's it, baby girl," he growls, the endearment new between you. "Let go for Daddy."

Your climax shatters through you with unexpected force, your cries echoing off the walls. In the aftermath, as you lie panting against his chest, a thin wail cuts through the house—your daughter, awakened by the sounds of your pleasure.

"I'll get her!" Amber's voice calls from the hallway, too close to the bedroom door.

Heat floods your face as you realize she must have heard everything—your cries, your words, the rhythmic creaking of the bed. The humiliation should crush you, but instead, it mingles with the afterglow, creating a confusing cocktail of emotions.

"Shh," David soothes, stroking your hair. "It's okay, baby girl. Let Amber handle it."

The endearment, spoken outside the heat of passion, should jar you back to reality. Instead, it settles over you like a warm blanket. You curl against him, feeling small and protected and, paradoxically, powerful in your surrender.

"Again," you whisper, guiding his hand between your legs, already slick with renewed desire. "Please, Daddy. Again."

Consciousness returns slowly, a warm heaviness pinning you to the mattress. David's arm is draped across your waist, his breathing deep and even against your neck. The events of last night flood back—the passionate reconnection, the forbidden words that passed between you, the way he called you his baby girl even after the heat of the moment had passed.

You shift slightly, and that's when you feel it—a cold, uncomfortable wetness beneath you. At first, you think it might be the aftermath of sex, but this is different. More pervasive. Your thighs are soaked, the sheets beneath you sodden.

You've wet the bed.

Horror washes over you as you carefully extract yourself from David's embrace. The wet patch is unmistakable, spreading across your side of the mattress like a damning accusation. Your nightie clings to your thighs, transparent where the urine has soaked through.

"David," you whisper, shaking his shoulder gently. "David, wake up."

He stirs, eyes blinking open slowly. "Mmm? What time is it?"

"I had an accident," you say, the words catching in your throat. "The doctor warned me this might happen after childbirth, but..."

David sits up, fully awake now. His eyes widen as he takes in the wet sheets, your damp nightgown, the shame burning in your cheeks.

"Oh, Mei," he says, his voice softening. "It's okay. These things happen."

"You can't tell Amber," you say urgently, gripping his arm. "Promise me, David. She can't know about this."

Something flickers across his face—hesitation, perhaps—but he nods. "I promise. Let's get this cleaned up before she wakes up."

You strip the bed together in tense silence, bundling the sheets into the washing machine. David helps you change into fresh pajamas, his hands gentle but clinical, as if handling something fragile.

"The doctor did mention this could happen," you say, needing to fill the silence. "Postpartum incontinence. The muscles get weak, and last night's... activity... probably didn't help."

David nods, but there's something in his expression you can't quite read. Concern, yes, but something else too. Something that makes you feel even smaller than you already do.

"It's just temporary," you add quickly. "It'll stop."

But even as you say it, you remember the doctor's warnings about how long recovery can take, how some women struggle with this for months after childbirth. The thought of waking up like this again—of David waking up to this again—makes your stomach clench with dread.

"Let's get some coffee," David suggests, clearly eager to move past the moment. "I'll make it."

As he leaves the bedroom, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Your hair is tousled from sleep, your face bare of the makeup armor you'd applied last night. You look young, vulnerable—exactly like what you've become in this household. A child who can't even control her bladder.

The worst part isn't the accident itself. It's how perfectly it fits into the narrative Amber has been crafting all along.

The second time it happens, there's no hiding it. You wake to the same telltale wetness spreading beneath you, David's arm still draped across your waist. This time, he stirs before you can slip away, his hand moving to your hip and finding the soaked fabric of your nightgown.

"Again?" he asks, his voice gentle but tinged with concern.

You turn your face into the pillow, shame burning through you. "I'm sorry," you whisper.

David sits up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "This isn't sustainable, Mei. We can't keep washing the mattress every morning."

"I know," you say, your voice small. "I'll call the doctor tomorrow."

"I think we need a more immediate solution." He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, thumbs moving across the screen.

"What are you doing?" You prop yourself up on one elbow, suddenly alert.

"Ordering something." He doesn't look up from the screen. "Adult protective underwear. For nighttime."

The clinical description doesn't soften the blow. "Diapers," you say flatly. "You're ordering me diapers."

David finally meets your eyes. "It's not a big deal, Mei. Lots of women need them after childbirth."

"Then why does it feel like such a big deal?" Your voice cracks on the last word.

His expression softens. "Hey, look. They have different styles." He turns the screen toward you, showing a website with various options. "These even have little ballerina prints. Thought you might like those."

The gesture is so earnest, so clearly meant to comfort, that it breaks something inside you. He's trying to make this palatable, to find some small way to preserve your dignity while addressing the practical reality of your situation.

"Okay," you whisper, surprising yourself. "The ballerina ones."

That night, after another passionate reconnection where David calls you his "baby girl" and you call him "Daddy" again, he helps you into the protective underwear. The package arrived discreetly that afternoon, and you'd hidden it in your closet immediately, as if the cardboard box itself were shameful.

"Lift," he instructs gently, and you raise your hips as he slides the diaper beneath you. The crinkling sound is mortifying, but his hands are tender as he secures the tabs at your hips.

"How does it feel?" he asks, his palm resting on your stomach.

"Weird," you admit. "But... secure."

He pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. "Sleep well, baby girl," he murmurs against your hair.

You drift off with surprising ease, the unfamiliar bulk between your legs a constant reminder of your new reality, but also oddly comforting—a barrier against further humiliation.

When you wake, the bed is empty beside you. Sunlight streams through the curtains you forgot to close. Your hand moves automatically to check the diaper—it's dry, the ballerina prints still visible against the white material. A small victory.

It's only as you become fully conscious that you realize your thumb is in your mouth, wet with saliva. You pull it out quickly, staring at the glistening digit as if it belongs to someone else. You don't remember putting it there. You don't remember making that choice.

Days blur together in a haze of diminishing responsibility. The ballerina-print diapers become a nightly ritual—David helping you into them before bed, checking you in the morning. About half the time, they're wet. You've stopped feeling mortified; now it's just routine.

"Let's try again today," Amber suggests, positioning your daughter at your breast. The baby turns away, fussing until Amber takes her back. "She's just particular," Amber says, but her tone carries a note of satisfaction as your daughter latches eagerly to her swollen breast.

You watch, hollow, as your own breasts shrink back to their pre-pregnancy size over the week, the milk drying up while Amber's seem to grow more lush, straining against her nursing tops. The contrast between your bodies becomes a visual representation of your shifting roles—hers flourishing with maternal purpose, yours returning to a state that feels increasingly childlike.

"Can you help me pump?" Amber asks one afternoon, setting up the breast pump at the kitchen table. "My hands get tired holding these."

You find yourself kneeling beside her chair, holding the plastic cones to her heavy breasts while she adjusts the settings. The rhythmic whirring fills the kitchen as her milk flows freely into the collection bottles.

"You're such a good helper," Amber praises, her hand absently stroking your hair. "Auntie's little helper."

The diminutive stings, but you say nothing, transfixed by the steady flow of milk—milk your body failed to produce, milk your daughter prefers to anything you could offer.

David walks in from work, briefcase in hand, and stops short at the domestic tableau before him.

"What's going on here?" he asks, his tone curious rather than concerned.

"Mei's being Auntie's little helper," Amber explains, her fingers still tangled in your hair. "She's got such gentle hands."

David laughs, the sound striking you like a physical blow. Not because it's cruel—it isn't—but because it's accepting. In his eyes, this scene makes perfect sense: his wife kneeling at another woman's feet, helping to collect the milk that will feed their child.

"That's cute," he says, loosening his tie. "You two seem to have worked out a system."

You force a laugh, the sound brittle in your throat. "Just helping out."

But as you continue holding the pump to Amber's breast, you feel it—that curious sensation of shrinking, of becoming less substantial in your own home. You're not the mother, not really. You're the helper. The assistant. The child.

And the most disturbing part isn't that they see you this way.

It's that you're starting to find comfort in it.

The house is quiet when you finally stir, sunlight already high in the sky. David's been gone for two days now, his business trip leaving you alone with Amber and the baby. You've been sleeping later and later, the exhaustion of new motherhood—or perhaps the comfort of surrender—keeping you in bed well past dawn.

You stumble from your bedroom, mind foggy with sleep, wearing only a short silk nightie that barely covers your thighs. It's only when the cool air hits your legs that you realize you're still in last night's diaper, the ballerina print now swollen and heavy between your legs.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Amber calls from the nursery doorway, your daughter cradled against her shoulder. Her eyes drop to your waist, then lower, taking in the unmistakable bulk beneath your nightie. "Oh."

You freeze, one hand instinctively moving to cover yourself, but it's far too late. Heat floods your face as you stand exposed in the hallway, the evidence of your regression impossible to hide.

"I've been having accidents," you confess, the words tumbling out like you're reporting to a teacher. "At night. David's been helping me with...these." You gesture vaguely at the diaper, mortified yet strangely relieved to have the secret out.

Amber's expression softens, her lips curving into a smile that's both maternal and knowing. "Little girls like their secrets," she teases, but her voice is warm, not mocking. "How long has this been happening, Mei Mei?"

The diminutive—little sister in Chinese—makes something twist inside you. "Don't call me that," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"Sorry," Amber says, stepping closer. "Did you have a nickname when you were little?"

You hesitate, then surrender this small piece of yourself. "Mei Fly. My dad called me that because I was always jumping around."

"Mei Fly," she repeats, testing it on her tongue. "That's adorable. Listen, do you want me to help you change? That can't be comfortable."

The offer hangs between you, loaded with implications. Accepting means crossing a line, acknowledging a hierarchy that's been forming since Amber first entered your home. But standing here, wet and small in the hallway of your own house, the line seems to have already been crossed.

"Okay," you whisper.

Amber nods, all business now. "Let me put the baby down. She just fell asleep." She disappears into the nursery, returning moments later without your daughter. "Come on, we can do it in here. I've got changing supplies ready."

Of course she does. You follow her into the nursery, where a changing pad lies spread on the floor. Your daughter sleeps peacefully in her crib, oblivious to the role reversal playing out beneath her.

"Lie down," Amber instructs, and you comply, stretching out on the pad designed for an infant. The ceiling fan spins lazily above you as Amber kneels between your legs, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your diaper. "Lift up."

You raise your hips, allowing her to slide the wet diaper from beneath you. The cool air on your exposed skin makes you shiver—or perhaps it's the way Amber's gaze lingers on your most intimate parts.

"You know," she says conversationally, reaching for a wipe, "if you're going to need these regularly, you should really consider shaving down here. It's more hygienic with diapers."

The warm wipe glides over your skin, Amber's touch clinical yet somehow intimate. Each stroke sends a jolt through you, your body responding in ways that have nothing to do with maternal care. When she presses the wipe directly against your center, ostensibly to clean you thoroughly, you can't suppress a small gasp.

Something shifts in the air between you. Amber's movements slow, her eyes meeting yours with a question in them. The combination—her motherly tone, your vulnerable position, the care she's taking with your body—ignites something desperate inside you.

You sit up suddenly, grabbing her wrist, then her face, pulling her into a deep kiss. She stiffens in surprise, resisting for just a moment before softening against you, her lips parting.

When you break away, shame floods you immediately. "I'm sorry, I—"

But Amber is smiling, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Does Auntie's little Mei Fly want more?" she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper.

You nod quickly, need overriding dignity, and pull her back to you. On the nursery floor, beneath your sleeping daughter's crib, you surrender the last vestiges of your authority, making out with Amber like a teenager while the evidence of your regression lies discarded beside you.

Amber's lips curve into a smile against yours, her hands sliding up to cup your face. "Such a needy little thing," she murmurs, her thumb tracing your lower lip. "Is this what you want, Mei Fly?"

You nod, words failing as she pushes you gently back onto the changing pad. The nursery floor is hard beneath you, but you barely notice as Amber straddles your hips, her weight pinning you down. She's still fully clothed, her nursing top stretched tight across her full breasts, while you lie naked from the waist down, exposed and vulnerable.

"Tell Auntie what you need," she commands, her voice honeyed but firm.

"Touch me," you whisper, shame and desire warring within you. "Please."

Amber's smile widens as her hand travels down your body, fingertips skimming over your silk nightie, pushing it up to reveal your stomach, the stretch marks from pregnancy still visible on your skin. You flinch, trying to cover them, but she catches your wrists.

"No hiding," she says. "Good girls don't hide from Auntie."

The words send a shock of arousal through you. You go still, surrendering as her fingers find their way between your legs. Her touch is expert, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, how to circle and tease until you're arching against her hand.

"That's it," she encourages as you begin to tremble. "Let go for Auntie."

Your release crashes over you, intense and unexpected. You bite your lip to keep from crying out and waking the baby, your body shuddering beneath Amber's steady ministrations.

Before you've fully recovered, she's reaching for a fresh diaper from the stack beside the changing table. "My turn to feel good," she says, unzipping her shorts and pushing them down her hips. She positions herself over your face, her thighs bracketing your head. "Show Auntie how grateful you are."

You comply eagerly, your tongue finding her center, tasting her arousal. Above you, she sighs with pleasure, one hand braced against the wall, the other tangled in your hair, guiding your movements.

When she's satisfied, she climbs off you and reaches for the fresh diaper. "Now, now Mei Fly, Auntie wants to see if you can keep those dry today before she lets you out of them," she says, cutting you off when you begin to protest.

Shame floods you, but you find yourself nodding meekly. "Please, please don't tell David, about any of this," you whisper.

"Don't tell whom?" she checks.

You understand what she means.  "Don't tell Daddy, please."

Amber tsks in scolding disappointment. "Little girls and their secrets. Very well, but you will when he returns."

She tapes you into the fresh diaper with practiced efficiency, then helps you to your feet. The bulk between your legs is a constant reminder of your new position in this household hierarchy.

Throughout the day, you find yourself checking the diaper obsessively, hyper-aware of every bodily sensation. By evening, you're surprised to discover it's still dry, and stranger still, you feel an absurd sense of pride at this accomplishment.

"Good job, Mei Fly," Amber praises when she checks you before dinner. "Auntie's so proud of you." Her approval washes over you like warm sunshine, and you bask in it, momentarily forgetting how far you've fallen.

You stand up shakily from the changing pad, tugging your nightie down to cover yourself. The diaper crinkles loudly with every movement, a constant reminder of your regression.

"Amber," you say, summoning what remains of your authority, "I need you to take this off. This has gone too far."

Amber tilts her head, studying you with amused interest. "Has it? You seemed quite comfortable with our arrangement earlier." Her fingers brush against your hip, tracing the outline of the diaper through your nightie.

"That was..." You struggle to find the words, heat rising to your cheeks. "A moment of weakness. This is still my home, and I'm still an adult."

"Of course you are," Amber agrees, her tone indulgent. "But adults make responsible choices, don't they? And responsible choices include proper hygiene." She gestures toward the changing supplies. "I'd be happy to remove the diaper, Mei Fly, but first we need to address the cleanliness issue I mentioned earlier."

Your stomach drops as understanding dawns. "You want to...shave me?"

"It's really for the best," Amber explains, her voice taking on that sickly-sweet tone that makes you feel simultaneously comforted and diminished. "Hair traps moisture and bacteria. If you're going to continue having accidents, we need to keep you clean and prevent rashes."

"I'm not going to continue having accidents," you protest, but your voice lacks conviction.

Amber smiles knowingly. "Then there's no harm in being prepared, is there? It's just basic hygiene, Mei. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

You weigh your options, feeling cornered. The diaper is uncomfortable, a constant reminder of your diminished status. But allowing Amber to shave you feels like surrendering another piece of your adulthood, your autonomy.

"Fine," you whisper finally. "Just...be quick about it."

Amber's smile widens. "Lie back down, Mei Fly. Auntie will take good care of you."

You comply, settling back onto the changing pad beneath your daughter's crib. Amber retrieves a basin of warm water, a razor, and shaving cream from the bathroom. The preparations feel clinical, but her eyes hold something else as she kneels between your legs.

"Lift up," she instructs, and you raise your hips as she removes the diaper. The cool air against your skin makes you shiver as she applies the warm shaving cream to your most intimate area.

"Such a brave girl," Amber coos as she begins, the razor gliding over your skin with practiced precision. "Auntie's going to make you all smooth and clean."

Each stroke of the razor feels like another layer of your identity being stripped away. You stare at the ceiling, trying to disconnect from the sensation of Amber's fingers positioning you, the gentle pressure of the blade. With each passing minute, you feel smaller, more vulnerable, more childlike.

When she finishes, Amber wipes you clean with a warm cloth. "There," she says, her voice thick with satisfaction. "All done. Doesn't that feel better?"

You reach down tentatively, fingers finding nothing but smooth skin where once there was evidence of your womanhood. The sensation is foreign, unsettling—and yet, there's something about it that doesn't feel entirely wrong.

Evening settles over the house like a weighted blanket. You've spent the day in a strange limbo—part woman, part child—the fresh diaper a constant reminder of your surrender. Your newly smooth skin feels hypersensitive against the padding, alien yet oddly comforting.

Amber appears in your bedroom doorway, arms folded across her chest. "Getting late, Mei Fly. Time to think about bed, don't you think?"

You look up from your phone, where you've been mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, seeing other mothers' perfectly curated lives. "I guess so."

"Would you like Auntie to help you get ready?" Her voice lilts upward, sweet yet challenging. "I could tuck you in. Or..." She pauses deliberately. "You can handle it yourself. Your choice, of course."

The offer dangles between you—a rope to cling to or to hang yourself with. You know what accepting means: another step down this rabbit hole of regression. Yet the thought of being cared for, of surrendering the crushing weight of decision-making even for a night, pulls at something deep within you.

"You can say no," Amber adds, her smile knowing. "Though I suspect you don't want to."

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I'd like that," you whisper, the words barely audible.

"What would you like, Mei Fly?" Amber presses, making you articulate your surrender.

"I'd like you to...help me get ready for bed. And tuck me in."

Amber's smile widens as she crosses to your closet. "Let's find something cozy for sleep, shall we?"

She selects a soft cotton nightgown—one you haven't worn since before your pregnancy—and lays it on the bed. "Arms up," she instructs, and you comply, allowing her to pull your daytime clothes off and slip the nightgown over your head.

"Good girl," she praises, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders. "Now, let's check if you need a change before sleep."

You lie back obediently as she checks your diaper, her fingers pressing against the material to gauge its dampness. "Still dry," she announces. "Auntie's so proud of you."

The praise washes over you, warm and intoxicating. You smile despite yourself.

"Into bed now," Amber directs, pulling back the covers. You slide between the sheets, feeling small and protected as she tucks them around you, smoothing away wrinkles with practiced hands.

"Would you like a story?" she asks, perching on the edge of the bed.

You nod, unable to voice this final surrender.

Amber reaches for a book on your nightstand—one of the parenting guides you'd bought during pregnancy. She opens it but doesn't read from its pages. Instead, she begins a story in that high, sweet voice reserved for children.

"Once upon a time, there was a little fly who thought she was a butterfly..."

You drift off to the sound of her voice, to a tale of a creature who forgot what she was, who she was, until someone else defined her.

You wake with a jolt, disoriented in the soft morning light. Your diaper is wet again, the ballerina print swollen between your legs. For a moment, you lie there, thumb hovering near your mouth, the urge to suck it almost overwhelming.

No. Not today.

With newfound determination, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your fingers fumble with the tapes of the diaper, ripping them free. The sodden padding falls to the floor with a damp thud that sounds like liberation.

"I am a grown woman," you whisper to your reflection as you step into the shower, letting hot water sluice away the lingering scent of baby powder. You scrub vigorously, fingers exploring the strange smoothness between your legs where Amber shaved you yesterday. The sensation is still foreign, but you reclaim it as your own choice.

After toweling off, you march to your closet and pull out clothes you haven't worn since before pregnancy: a tight black dress that hugs every curve, showcasing the cleavage that once fed your daughter. The irony isn't lost on you.

You apply makeup with surgical precision—winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut, red lipstick like war paint. Each stroke of the brush feels like reclaiming territory.

When you emerge from the bedroom, Amber is in the kitchen, your daughter cradled against her breast. She looks up, surprise flickering across her face before settling into something more calculated.

"Well, look at you," she says, her tone hovering between admiration and mockery. "All dressed up. Special occasion?"

"Just feeling like myself again," you reply, pouring coffee into a mug emblazoned with 'World's Best Mom'—a gift from David before everything changed.

"And how did you sleep?" Amber's eyes flick meaningfully toward your hips, now encased in the tight fabric of your dress.

"Fine," you lie, taking a deliberate sip of coffee. "I've been thinking, Amber. I'm calling some friends today. Going out tonight."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh? And what about the baby?"

"You'll be here," you say, the statement both a question and a command. "That's what we pay you for, isn't it?"

A slow smile spreads across Amber's face. "Of course, Mei. I'm always happy to help." She adjusts her position, deliberately exposing more of her breast as your daughter feeds. "Though I wonder what David would think about you going out so soon after giving birth."

"David isn't here," you remind her, gripping your coffee mug tighter. "And I don't need his permission."

"Of course not," Amber agrees, her tone suggesting otherwise. "Mei Fly doesn't need anyone's permission, does she?"

You flinch at the nickname but hold your ground. "No. She doesn't."

-- Turn 20 -- (This is this point where the story deviates between versions A and B)

You call your old friends Molly and Veronica to arrange a night out clubbing, where you can tell them everything that's been happening.  You call Molly first, your fingers trembling slightly as you dial. The phone rings three times before her familiar voice answers.

"Mei? Is that you? God, it's been ages!"

"I need to go out tonight," you say, the words tumbling out. "With you and Veronica. I need to get drunk and tell you something important."

There's a pause, then Molly's voice softens. "Of course, honey. Is everything okay with the baby?"

"The baby's fine," you say, glancing toward the nursery where Amber is putting your daughter down for the night. "It's me who's not okay."

Two hours later, you're seated in a pulsing nightclub, the bass thrumming through your body like a second heartbeat. Veronica, tall and statuesque with her signature platinum bob, slides another tequila shot toward you. Molly, petite with wild red curls, leans in close to hear you over the music.

"So let me get this straight," Veronica says, her perfectly arched eyebrows rising higher with each revelation. "This wet nurse has basically taken over your house, your husband, and your baby?"

You nod, downing the shot. The alcohol burns a path down your throat, warming your blood. "And the worst part? I've been letting her. I've been...enjoying it, in some sick way."

Molly's green eyes narrow. "That bitch is manipulating you, Mei. This is textbook psychological domination."

"David comes back in five days, Wednesday," you say, staring into your empty glass. "By then, she'll have completely taken over."

"Not if we have anything to say about it," Veronica declares, signaling for another round.

Molly suddenly sits up straighter, her eyes brightening with an idea. "Wait. I might have something that could help. At the research facility where I work..."

It's well past midnight when the three of you stumble through your front door, giggling and shushing each other. The house is dark, Amber presumably asleep in the guest room.

"Is she out?" Veronica whispers, collapsing onto your sofa.

You tiptoe down the hallway, peering into the guest room. Amber lies curled on her side, her breathing deep and even. You return to the living room with a nod.

Molly reaches into her purse, extracting two small vials of clear liquid. "These are experimental hormones," she explains, her Irish accent thickening with intoxication. "This one—" she holds up the vial with a blue cap, "—will make your breasts bigger and fill them with milk. And this one—" she indicates the vial with a pink cap, "—will reverse puberty. Shrinks breasts to nothing, increases baby fat, eliminates curves."

"Holy shit," Veronica breathes. "That's some sci-fi level stuff."

Molly leans forward, her eyes gleaming. "Give that bitch the regression hormones in her smoothies and take the other ones. You'll be the one feeding your baby by the time David comes back."

The plan is outrageous, unethical, possibly illegal. But as you sit there, the alcohol clouding your judgment, all you can think about is Amber's smug smile as she nursed your daughter, her hands on your body as she changed your diaper, her voice calling you "Mei Fly."

"I'll do it," you decide, taking the vials from Molly's hand. "She deserves it."

As your friends leave with promises to check in tomorrow, you hide the vials in your nightstand drawer. The plan feels deliciously naughty, a secret rebellion against the woman who's been infantilizing you. Tomorrow, you think, the tables will turn.

The morning light filters through your kitchen blinds as you blend the berries, yogurt, and protein powder. Your hands tremble slightly as you uncap the blue vial, pouring its contents into one glass, then add the pink-capped formula to the other. Both smoothies look identical—a vibrant magenta that reminds you of the tutus you once wore on stage.

You hear Amber's footsteps before you see her, padding softly into the kitchen in a loose tank top and shorts. Her hair is tousled from sleep, giving her an infuriatingly innocent appearance.

"Morning," she says, stretching her arms overhead. The movement lifts her tank top slightly, revealing a strip of toned stomach. "You're up early."

"I thought we could talk," you reply, sliding what you believe is her smoothie across the counter. "I made breakfast."

Amber eyes the drink with mild surprise. "That's... thoughtful. Could you make some coffee too? I'm still half-asleep."

"Sure," you say, turning toward the coffee maker. You set your own smoothie down beside hers, the two glasses nearly touching. As you measure out the coffee grounds, you hear the baby monitor crackle with your daughter's first morning whimpers.

"I'll get her," Amber says automatically. "She's probably hungry."

"No, I can—" you begin, but she's already heading toward the nursery. You finish preparing the coffee, distracted by the sound of Amber cooing to your daughter through the monitor.

When she returns, baby cradled against her chest, you've already forgotten which smoothie is which. They sit side by side on the counter, identical in every visible way.

"Which one's mine?" Amber asks, bouncing gently as your daughter settles against her.

Panic flutters in your chest. "The... that one," you point, gambling on your memory.

Amber takes the glass with her free hand and sips appreciatively. "Mmm, delicious. What's in it?"

"Just berries and yogurt," you lie, watching her throat as she swallows. "And protein powder."

You take the remaining smoothie, raising it to your lips with a silent prayer that you've chosen correctly. The sweet-tart flavor floods your mouth, indistinguishable from any normal smoothie. You swallow hard.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" Amber asks, settling into a chair at the kitchen table, your daughter still nestled against her. "How was your night out? You came home pretty late."

You open your mouth to speak, but a strange warmth is already spreading through your body. Your breasts feel suddenly heavy, tingling with an unfamiliar pressure. A drop of moisture appears at the tip of your nipple, darkening the fabric of your shirt.

"Mei?" Amber's voice seems to come from far away. "Are you okay? You look flushed."

You've chosen correctly—or incorrectly, depending on how you look at it. The lactation hormones are already taking effect, faster than you anticipated. But as relief washes over you, another thought surfaces: if these hormones work this quickly, what will the regression formula do to Amber?

As you sip your smoothie, a strange warmth spreads through your chest. Your breasts feel suddenly heavy, tingling with unfamiliar pressure. You glance down to see two wet circles forming on your shirt where your nipples are leaking milk.

"Are you... lactating?" Amber asks, her eyes widening.

You can't help the smug smile that spreads across your face. "Looks like it."

Over the next few hours, the changes in both of you become impossible to ignore. Your breasts continue to swell, filling with milk that begs for release. Meanwhile, Amber's tank top grows looser around her chest. By noon, her once-impressive breasts have shrunk to nearly nothing, her face softening with a layer of baby fat that makes her look years younger.

"What's happening to me?" she whispers, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her voice has lost its authoritative edge, higher-pitched and uncertain.

"I don't know," you lie, cradling your daughter who's begun to fuss. "But I think she's hungry."

Amber automatically reaches for the baby, then stops, looking down at her diminished chest with confusion. "I... I don't think I can feed her anymore."

"I can," you say, settling into the rocking chair. You unbutton your shirt, exposing your swollen breast. When your daughter latches on, the relief is immediate and overwhelming. Milk flows freely from you for the first time, the sensation both painful and exquisite.

Amber watches, her expression a complex mixture of confusion, envy, and something like fear. "How is this possible?"

"Maybe your body knew you weren't her real mother," you suggest sweetly, stroking your daughter's head as she nurses. "And mine finally remembered that I am."

By evening, Amber's transformation has progressed further. Her curves have vanished, replaced by the gangly, undeveloped limbs of early adolescence. She moves awkwardly, as if unsure how to operate her changing body. When she reaches for a glass in the kitchen, her hand trembles, sending it crashing to the floor.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her eyes filling with tears. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"It's okay," you assure her, the power dynamic between you shifting with dizzying speed. "Let me clean that up."

Later, as you're preparing dinner, a small whimper draws your attention. Amber stands in the doorway, a dark stain spreading down her legs, pooling on the floor beneath her.

"I... I didn't mean to," she stammers, her face flushing with shame. "It just happened."

You approach her slowly, savoring the role reversal. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Accidents happen." Your voice has taken on the same saccharine tone she once used with you. "Let's get you cleaned up."

In the bathroom, you help her out of her wet clothes, noting how her body has lost all signs of womanhood. "I have something that might help," you say, retrieving one of the diapers from your room.

Amber stares at it, recognition and horror dawning in her eyes. "No, I don't need—"

"Shh," you interrupt, guiding her to lie down. "Trust me. It's better than another accident, isn't it?"

Slowly, reluctantly, she nods, allowing you to lift her hips and slide the diaper underneath. As you secure the tapes, a strange sense of completion washes over you. The student has become the teacher; the caretaker now needs care.

"There," you say, helping her stand. "All better, Amber Baby."

Through the night, your daughter's cries mingle with Amber's whimpers. You move between rooms with newfound confidence, a Madonna with milk-heavy breasts, tending to both charges with equal parts tenderness and calculation.

In the nursery, you cradle your daughter against your chest, feeling the sweet release as she draws milk from you. The biological connection floods your system with oxytocin, cementing a bond that Amber had threatened to sever.

"There you go, sweetheart," you whisper, stroking her downy head. "Mommy's here now."

When you return to your bedroom where you've set up a makeshift bed for Amber, she's curled into a fetal position, thumb lodged firmly between her lips. The regression hormones have accelerated throughout the evening, leaving her in a twilight state between adolescence and childhood.

"Mei?" she calls out, voice high and uncertain. "I feel weird."

"I know, sweetie," you reply, sitting beside her on the bed. You brush damp hair from her forehead, noting how her features have softened, cheeks rounded with baby fat. "Your body's going through some changes."

"Am I sick?" Tears pool in her eyes, genuine fear replacing the calculated manipulation that once resided there.

"No, not sick. Just... different." You check her diaper, finding it wet again. "Let's get you changed."

As you clean her, applying powder with the same methodical care she once showed you, you notice how her hips have narrowed, pubic area smooth and childlike where adult curves once existed. The regression is comprehensive, erasing every marker of the woman who threatened to replace you.

"I don't understand what's happening," Amber sobs as you secure a fresh diaper around her diminished frame.

"Sometimes we don't need to understand," you tell her, echoing words she once spoke to you. "Sometimes we just need to accept."

By dawn, Amber can barely form complete sentences. Her vocabulary has simplified, cognitive regression following the physical. When she reaches for you, it's with the uncoordinated grasp of a toddler.

"Up," she demands, arms outstretched. "Up, Mei-Mei."

You lift her, surprised by how light she's become. Her head rests against your shoulder, small body trembling against yours. For a moment, guilt flickers through you—this transformation is more complete than you intended, more devastating.

"Story?" Amber asks, pointing to a book on your nightstand—one of the parenting guides she'd been reading to better care for your daughter.

"Of course," you agree, settling her on your lap. As you read, your milk lets down again, dampening your nightgown. Amber notices, her eyes tracking the wet spots with infantile curiosity.

"Milk?" she asks, reaching toward your breast with pudgy fingers.

You hesitate at this unexpected development. The hormones have regressed her further than you anticipated, awakening needs you hadn't considered. The power to nurture—or withhold—rests entirely with you now.

"Yes," you finally answer, adjusting your nightgown. "Milk for babies who ask nicely."

Amber's face scrunches in concentration. "Please milk?" she manages, the words slurred but unmistakable.

As she latches onto your breast, the circle completes itself. The wet nurse has become the nursed, the caretaker now cared for. And you, once diminished, stand restored as the sole maternal figure in this strange, inverted household.

You dial Molly's number, fingers trembling with anticipation. When she answers, her voice is thick with sleep.

"Mei? It's not even ten on a Sunday. Is everything okay?"

"The hormones worked," you whisper, glancing toward the living room where Amber sits cross-legged on the floor, stacking colored blocks with the concentration of a toddler. "Better than we expected. But I need more."

There's a pause on the line. "More? Mei, these compounds aren't toys. They're experimental—"

"I know what they are," you interrupt, watching Amber knock over her tower and giggle. "And I need more before David gets home on Wednesday. Can you bring them today?"

Molly arrives two hours later, a small cooler bag clutched to her chest. Her eyes widen when she sees Amber, now dressed in an adult onesie you bought online, along with other adult sized supplies.

"Jesus Christ," Molly breathes, setting the cooler on your kitchen counter. "When you said it worked, I didn't think..."

"Neither did I," you admit, mixing a fresh smoothie. This time, you add twice the dose of regression hormones. "But it feels right, somehow. Correcting the natural order."

Molly watches you with growing concern. "Mei, this isn't just about getting your life back anymore, is it?"

You don't answer, instead carrying the smoothie to Amber, who claps her hands excitedly. "Drink up, sweetie," you coo, helping her hold the cup.

Afterward, you lead Molly to the spare room—once Amber's domain—now being transformed into a nursery. You've already assembled a crib large enough for Amber's shrinking body, painted the walls a soft yellow.

"What will you tell David?" Molly asks, fingering the mobile of stars and moons hanging above the crib.

"The truth," you reply, straightening a row of adult-sized diapers on the changing table. "That Amber got sick. That her body is... changing. That she needs our care now."

"And he'll believe that?"

"He'll believe what he sees," you say, confidence flowing through you like the milk in your breasts. "A helpless girl who can't care for herself, let alone his child or his wife."

By evening, the second dose has accelerated Amber's regression further. Her speech has devolved to babbles and single words. When you bathe her, her body has lost all secondary sexual characteristics—no breasts, no curves, just the pudgy limbs and rounded belly of early childhood.

"Ba-ba," she whimpers, reaching for your milk-swollen breast as you dry her with a fluffy towel.

"Yes, baby," you answer, settling into the rocking chair you've placed in her new nursery. "Mei-Mei's got milk for you."

As she suckles, eyes fluttering closed in contentment, you stroke her hair and plan. David will be shocked, of course. Confused. But he'll adapt, just as you've adapted to mothering two instead of one. The woman who threatened to replace you will become another charge in your care—the ultimate neutralization of a rival.

"Mine now," you whisper to Amber's sleeping form as you lay her in the crib. "All mine."

You retrieve your phone from the kitchen counter, fingers trembling with anticipation. The camera app opens with a soft click, lens focusing on Amber as she sits in a puddle of morning light, stacking blocks with clumsy fingers, photos showing the evidence of her changes. Her regression has been dramatic overnight—face rounded with baby fat, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

You snap the first photo. The shutter sound makes her look up, confusion clouding her features before a toothless smile breaks across her face.

"Picture?" she asks, voice high and lisping.

"Yes, sweetie. Mei-Mei's taking pictures," you reply, circling her like a documentarian. Each image captures another facet of her transformation: her diminished height against the doorframe where you once marked your daughter's growth; her hands, once elegant and threatening as they caressed your husband's arm, now pudgy and uncoordinated; the onesie hanging loose where breasts once swelled.

"Stand up for me," you instruct, helping her to wobbly feet. She complies with the unquestioning trust of a toddler, holding your fingers for balance. You photograph her from every angle, clinical in your documentation yet undeniably aroused by the evidence of your triumph.

"Ba-ba now?" Amber whimpers, tugging at your milk-heavy breast through your blouse.

"After pictures," you promise, positioning her next to a photo of herself from last week—the before to this grotesque after. The contrast is startling: the confident woman who threatened to replace you reduced to a babbling child who depends on you for everything.

Later, as Amber naps in her new crib, you scroll through the photos, creating a separate album labeled "Evidence." You construct a narrative in your mind: Amber falling mysteriously ill, her body changing beyond medical explanation. You'll show David these photos as proof of your innocence, your bewilderment matching his.

"I don't know what happened," you practice saying to your reflection in the bathroom mirror, eyes wide with manufactured concern. "She just started... changing. Getting younger. The doctors are baffled."

The lie tastes sweet on your tongue, a confection of revenge and restoration. You imagine David's face when he returns, his shock giving way to acceptance as you position yourself as the savior, the caretaker of both his child and the woman who tried to steal your place.

"Poor thing," you whisper, returning to Amber's nursery to check on her. She sleeps with her thumb lodged firmly between her lips, chest rising and falling in the shallow breaths of childhood. You stroke her hair, a gesture both tender and possessive. "Don't worry. Mei-Mei will take care of everything."

You arrange stuffed animals in a semicircle around Amber's new crib, positioning each one with the precision of a stage director. The yellow walls glow in the late morning light, creating a nursery that's both innocent and unsettling—a space designed for an adult woman reduced to infancy.

In the bathroom mirror, you practice your lines again.

"It started with confusion," you tell your reflection, eyes wide with manufactured concern. "Then regression. The doctors are baffled." You adjust your expression—less satisfaction, more bewilderment. "We've been to three specialists, David. They've never seen anything like it."

Your daughter cries from her room, the sound pulling you from your rehearsal. You find her awake in her crib, tiny fists waving in the air. When you lift her, her weight feels right in your arms—unlike Amber, whose diminishing form requires constant adjustment of your grip.

"There's my girl," you whisper, settling into the rocking chair. You unbutton your blouse, guiding her to your breast. The sensation of her latching sends a wave of oxytocin through your system—a biological validation of your motherhood that Amber nearly stole from you.

"No one will ever take you from me again," you promise, stroking her downy head. "Not Amber, not anyone."

From the other nursery comes a whimper, then a wail. Amber has awakened, disoriented and wet. You continue feeding your daughter, deliberately unhurried.

"Just a minute, Amber Baby," you call, voice honey-sweet with the knowledge that she must wait, must depend on your mercy.

When you finally enter her nursery, Amber's face is tear-streaked, her diaper visibly soaked. "Wet," she sobs, hands grabbing at the sodden padding between her legs.

"I see that," you reply, laying her on the changing table. "Let's get you clean."

As you wipe her, you mentally rehearse the timeline you've constructed: Amber becoming confused Wednesday, slurring her words by Thursday, unable to care for herself by Friday. You've deleted all evidence of your night out with Molly and Veronica, erased the text messages about the hormones.

"All better," you announce, securing a fresh diaper around Amber's hips. You lift her into your arms, her head nestling against your shoulder with the instinctive trust of a child.

In the living room, you arrange medical reference books on the coffee table, printouts of rare neurological conditions scattered among them. You've created a paper trail of concern—notes in your phone about Amber's "symptoms," a list of doctors you've supposedly consulted.

"See these?" you tell Amber, though she can no longer comprehend. "These are our alibi. Our protection."

She reaches for your breast, mouth opening in hungry anticipation. You hesitate, then relent, guiding her to the source of nourishment that now links you. As she suckles, eyes fluttering closed in contentment, you stroke her hair and smile.

The narrative is complete. The stage is set. All that remains is for David to return home and find his household transformed—his wife restored to maternal glory, his former temptation reduced to a second child in need of care.

You spread medical textbooks across your desk, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over glossy pages of rare neurological disorders. With surgical precision, you select conditions that might explain Amber's symptoms: rapid cognitive decline, physical regression, loss of motor skills. 

Your printer hums to life, spitting out articles on obscure diseases with imposing names—Klüver-Bucy syndrome, Cotard's delusion, frontotemporal dementia. You highlight passages that align with your fabricated timeline, adding margin notes in your neat handwriting: "Day 3: speech regression noted" and "Day 5: childlike behaviors emerging."

A manila folder becomes Amber's medical history, complete with a falsified intake form from University Hospital. You forge a doctor's signature—Dr. Eleanor Weiss, Neurologist—with practiced confidence, the pen flowing across prescription pads you ordered online months ago for tax purposes.

"Amber," you murmur, labeling the tab with meticulous care. "Age 22. Presenting with unprecedented neurological regression."

You create a symptom journal, backdating entries to establish a pattern: "Wednesday: Amber complained of headaches, seemed disoriented during feeding." Your handwriting becomes increasingly distressed with each entry, mirroring the concerned caregiver you're pretending to be. "Thursday: Found Amber in bathroom, confused about basic hygiene. Had to help her brush teeth."

From the nursery comes Amber's plaintive cry—"Mei-Mei!"—her voice high and needy. You ignore it, continuing your work with single-minded focus.

"Friday: Amber unable to dress herself. Speech reduced to simple phrases." You pause, considering how much detail to include. Too little seems suspicious; too much invites scrutiny. You settle on: "Called Dr. Weiss. Recommended observation and documentation pending appointment Monday."

You create a medication chart, listing benign supplements that might plausibly be prescribed for neurological support. Vitamin B complex. Omega-3 fatty acids. Nothing that could be verified through blood work.

"Mei-Mei!" Amber calls again, more insistent. "Hungry!"

"Just a minute, sweetie," you call back, voice honeyed with false patience.

You add a final touch—a business card for Dr. Weiss paperclipped to the file, complete with office hours and a phone number that rings to your second cell phone. The deception is comprehensive, meticulous, perfect.

Standing back, you admire your handiwork. The file tells a story of concern, confusion, and medical mystery—not of revenge, manipulation, and hormonal sabotage. It transforms you from perpetrator to caretaker, from villain to victim.

"Coming, Amber Baby," you say, tucking the file into your desk drawer. You lock it with a small key, which you slip into your bra, nestled against your milk-heavy breast—the source of your reclaimed power.

As you walk to the nursery, you rehearse your expression of worried exhaustion, the slight tremble in your voice when you'll tell David, "The doctors don't know what's happening to her." The lie feels comfortable now, a second skin you've grown into.

You enter the nursery where Amber waits, her face lighting up at the sight of you. The afternoon sun filters through sheer curtains, casting a golden glow over her regressed form. Her hands reach for you with the uncoordinated eagerness of a toddler.

"Mei-Mei!" she cries, voice high and lisping. "Hungry!"

"I know, sweetheart," you coo, lifting her from the crib with practiced ease. Her body feels lighter than before, more compact in your arms. "Mei-Mei's here now."

You settle into the rocking chair, positioning Amber across your lap. She nuzzles against your breast before you've even unbuttoned your blouse, her regression having stripped away adult inhibitions along with her maturity.

"Patience," you murmur, voice gentle but firm as you unbutton your top. You've perfected this tone over the past day—concerned yet authoritative, the voice of a caregiver rather than a saboteur.

Amber latches immediately, her eyes fluttering closed in contentment. The sensation sends conflicting waves of emotion through you: triumph at your reclaimed power, arousal at her submission, and a twisted maternal fulfillment that blurs the boundaries between vengeance and nurturing.

"There we go," you whisper, stroking her hair. "Poor Amber. We'll figure out what's happening to you."

You practice your worried frown, the slight catch in your voice when you add, "The doctors are doing everything they can."

Amber suckles greedily, one hand clutching at your blouse. You study her face—the woman who threatened to replace you now reduced to complete dependence. Her cheeks have rounded, her previously sharp jawline softened into childish curves. Even her eyes seem different, wider and more trusting.

"David will be home soon," you tell her, though she likely doesn't comprehend. "We'll explain everything to him together. How confused you've been, how quickly it happened."

Amber pulls away momentarily, milk dribbling down her chin. "Dada home?" she asks, the complex man she once seduced reduced in her mind to a simple paternal figure.

"Yes, Dada will be home soon," you confirm, wiping her mouth with the corner of a burp cloth. The word 'Dada' from her lips sends a shiver of satisfaction through you—further evidence of her complete transformation.

You switch her to your other breast, wincing slightly at the tenderness. The hormones have worked almost too well, your body producing milk in abundance. As Amber feeds, you rehearse your performance for David—the wide eyes, the trembling hands, the carefully constructed timeline of Amber's decline.

"We'll take care of you," you promise, voice honeyed with false concern. "Just like you took care of us."

Amber responds with a contented hum, oblivious to the layers of meaning in your words, the sweet revenge in your tender ministrations.

You sit Amber on the edge of her adult-sized crib, her legs dangling over the side as you kneel before her. The afternoon light casts long shadows across the nursery, highlighting the absurd tableau you've created—a grown woman in a onesie being coached like a child actress before her debut performance.

"When Daddy comes home," you explain, voice deliberately slow and clear, "he's going to be very surprised to see you like this."

Amber tilts her head, blonde curls falling across her forehead. "Dada surprise?"

"Yes, exactly." You smile, rewarding her simple response with a gentle stroke of her cheek. "And when he asks you questions, what do you say?"

She furrows her brow, concentration flickering across features that have softened into childlike roundness. "Don't know," she finally offers, the words slurring together.

"Perfect!" You clap your hands, and she mimics you, giggling at the sound. "And if he asks if you remember being a grown-up?"

Amber's face clouds with genuine confusion. "Was big?"

The question sends a chill down your spine—evidence that the regression has affected her memory as well as her physical form. You hadn't anticipated such thoroughness, but it serves your purposes perfectly.

"That's right, you don't remember being big," you affirm, squeezing her pudgy hand. "Now, show me how you ask for food."

She pats her stomach dramatically. "Hungry! Mei-Mei, hungry!"

"And if you need to be changed?"

Amber squirms, grabbing at her diaper. "Wet! Icky!"

"You're doing so well," you praise, reaching for a stuffed rabbit from the toy chest. You hold it just out of her reach. "Now, what do good girls say when they want something?"

"Pease?" She stretches her arms toward the toy, fingers grasping at air. "Pease, Mei-Mei?"

You surrender the rabbit, watching as she clutches it to her chest with undisguised joy. The ease with which she falls into these patterns unsettles and thrills you simultaneously.

"One more thing," you say, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If Daddy tries to help you do grown-up things—like use the bathroom or feed yourself—what happens?"

Amber's face crumples into a practiced tantrum. "No! Can't! Mei-Mei help!"

"Perfect." You kiss her forehead, tasting the sweet powder you dusted there earlier. "You're such a good girl, Amber. Such a perfect baby for Mei-Mei."

She beams at the praise, regression and reinforcement blurring into a seamless performance that's becoming increasingly indistinguishable from reality. You've become the architect of her new existence, sculpting her responses with the precision of a behavioral scientist and the passion of a vengeful goddess.

You're adjusting Amber's onesie when she suddenly giggles—not the infantile sound you've grown accustomed to, but something musical and ancient. Your fingers freeze on the snap buttons.

"Mei, Mei..." she says, her voice no longer lisping but resonant with clarity. "Even like this, you were okay with me calling you that, interesting."

You stumble backward as Amber rises from the changing table. Her body elongates, curves filling out the stretched fabric of the onesie until it splits at the seams. Golden light emanates from her skin, casting your shadow long against the nursery wall. Where moments ago stood a regressed young woman now stands something else entirely—a being of impossible beauty and terrible power.

"I apologize, I have lied to you," she says, her voice carrying the weight of millennia. "Your hormones did not affect me as you thought. I am not 22, more like 22 hundred."

She steps forward, the remnants of the onesie falling away to reveal skin that seems to shimmer with an inner light. "Amber is not my real name, merely the color of my apples, which some describe as golden." 

She cups her breasts in her hands, the gesture both maternal and erotic. "My apples... not quite fruit, but of my tree. Also, my last name is Apalder, or apple tree in Norse. I am a goddess of rejuvenation, but you may call me Idun."

Your carefully constructed world of control and revenge collapses around you. The medical files, the rehearsed explanations for David—all rendered meaningless by this revelation.

"I was fascinated by how far you would go," Idun continues, moving toward you with fluid grace. "How naughty you would be."

You back against the wall, knocking over the diaper caddy. "This isn't possible," you whisper, though the evidence stands before you, radiating power.

"Many things are possible, Mei Chen," Idun replies, reaching out to touch your cheek. Her fingers feel like sunlight against your skin. "I came to your home curious about modern motherhood, about the complex dance between women in this age. I never expected such... creativity in your response to threat."

She gestures toward the crib, the changing table, the bottles of formula. "You built quite the prison for me. Quite the performance."

"What happens now?" you ask, voice barely audible.

Idun smiles, and in that smile you see the wisdom of centuries. "That depends on what you've learned, little mother. About power. About nurturing. About the darkness that lives alongside your love."

Outside, you hear the sound of David's car pulling into the driveway. Idun's eyes flicker toward the window, then back to you.

"Your husband returns," she says. "Shall we greet him together? I wonder what story you'll tell him now."

You fall to your knees before Idun, as you press your palms together in supplication. The goddess towers above you, golden light emanating from her skin in pulsing waves that match the rhythm of your racing heart.

"Please," you whisper, voice cracking. "I'll tell David everything. The hormones, the manipulation—all of it. Just don't—"

"Are you still a little girl with secrets," Idun interrupts, her voice like honey poured over broken glass. "If you confess to David, you confess ALL." Her eyes narrow, ancient and knowing. "Every secret, every desire, every action, all flush on the table. Are you ready for that, Mei Fly?"

The nickname—your husband's private endearment now—in her mouth feels like a violation. You hesitate, mind racing through the implications. Confessing means admitting not just to drugging Amber, but to the dark thrill you felt watching her regress, the satisfaction in reclaiming your power, the arousal that accompanied your dominance.

"I..." Your voice falters. The words won't come.

Idun studies your face, reading your hesitation like a familiar text. "I see," she states, nodding slowly. "You remain a little girl then. I can accept that, I can be your mother, your guide, if you accept."

Something in her tone—maternal yet predatory—sends a shiver down your spine. The offer dangles before you: absolution without confession, protection without honesty. You nod meekly, surrendering to the path of least resistance.

"Good," Idun says, stroking your hair as one might pet a favored animal. "Your friends, your conspirators, they must pay. You will invite them here, tell them I am helpless, tell them to bring more of the regressive hormone. This you will do, yes?"

You think of Molly, who provided the hormones out of misguided friendship. Of inviting her into this divine trap. Your stomach churns with guilt, but Idun's fingers tighten in your hair, a gentle reminder of her power.

"Yes," you whisper, the word barely audible. "I'll do it."

"Excellent." Idun releases you and walks to the window. Outside, David's car door slams. "Now, shall we greet your husband? I think I'll remain in this form—he should see what true divinity looks like, don't you think?"

You remain kneeling, the goddess's new puppet, as footsteps approach the front door.

You reach for your phone with trembling fingers, scrolling to Molly's contact. The goddess Idun watches you, her golden light casting strange shadows across the nursery walls.

"That's it," she encourages, voice melodic yet commanding. "Tell her you need more. Tell her it's urgent."

You press dial, heart hammering against your ribs. One ring. Two. On the third, Molly answers.

"Mei? Everything okay?" Her voice sounds distant, concerned.

"Molly, I—" Your throat constricts. Images flash through your mind: Molly in college, holding your hair back after too many tequila shots; Molly at your wedding, adjusting your veil with tears in her eyes; Molly bringing those hormones, worried but trusting your judgment.

"I need you to bring more of the regression formula," you manage, each word like glass in your mouth. "Amber's changed, but not... not completely. I need to finish what we started."

Silence stretches between you. Then, Molly's voice, suddenly sharp: "No, Mei. I'm not bringing you anything else."

"But—"

"I've been researching what I gave you," she continues, words tumbling out in a rush. "The potential side effects are catastrophic. Neural damage. Permanent psychological regression. I should never have given it to you in the first place."

Idun's eyes narrow, her light dimming slightly. You feel caught between divine wrath and human conscience.

"Please, Molly," you beg, voice cracking. "I need this."

"What you need is help," Molly replies firmly. "I'm coming over, but not with hormones. We need to get Amber to a hospital, and you need to talk to someone professional."

Before you can respond, the line goes dead. You lower the phone, meeting Idun's gaze with dread.

"Disappointing," the goddess says, her voice like ice. "Your friend has more backbone than you do."

Downstairs, the front door opens. David's voice calls up: "Mei? Amber? I'm home!"

Idun smiles, the expression not reaching her ancient eyes. "Well then. Let's greet your husband, shall we? And perhaps we'll prepare a special welcome for your friend Molly when she arrives."

You remain frozen, phone clutched in your hand, trapped between the approaching footsteps of your husband and the calculating gaze of a goddess who has found you wanting.

As David's footsteps reach the top of the stairs, you drop to your knees, the onesie fabric bunching around your thighs. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you prepare to lay yourself bare.

"David!" you call out, voice cracking. "I need to tell you something!"

He appears in the doorway, his business casual attire rumpled from travel, dark circles under his eyes. His gaze shifts between you on the floor and Idun standing tall beside the crib, her golden aura pulsing gently in the afternoon light.

"What's going on?" he asks, wariness etched across his features.

"I did something terrible," you confess, words tumbling out like water through a broken dam. "I gave Amber—who isn't really Amber—hormones to make her regress. I was jealous and scared and I wanted to be the mother again, not just some... some useless appendage in our family."

David's face contorts in confusion. "Hormones? Regression? Mei, what are you talking about?"

"Your wife speaks truth," Idun interjects, her voice resonating with unnatural depth. "Though she omits that she enjoyed watching me diminish, that she felt power surge through her veins as she believed she was reducing me to infancy."

"Who the hell are you?" David demands, stepping protectively between you and the goddess.

"I am Idun," she replies simply. "Keeper of youth, guardian of renewal. I came to your home curious about modern motherhood."

David laughs nervously. "This is insane. Both of you need help."

"Your disbelief changes nothing," Idun states, extending her hand. A golden apple materializes in her palm, its skin shimmering with impossible light. "Your daughter will remain untouched by my displeasure. As will you, David Chen. But Mei—" her eyes lock onto yours, ancient and unforgiving, "—Mei must face consequences for attempting to bend divine nature to her will."

"This is ridiculous," David sputters, reaching for his phone. "I'm calling—"

The device in his hand transforms into a cluster of apple blossoms, petals drifting to the floor.

"Your friend Molly approaches," Idun continues, ignoring David's shocked expression. "She who provided the means for your transgression. And Veronica, who encouraged your darkest impulses. They too shall taste my judgment."

"I've never even heard of a Veronica," you protest, some loyalty momentarily overriding your fear.

Idun's brow furrows. "More secrets little Mei Fly?  The threads of fate showed her clearly.  The price remains regardless of your denial. You sought to reverse the natural order, to reclaim what was never truly yours to possess.  You three will pay."

"What price?" David demands, his voice steadier now as he processes the impossible reality before him.

Idun smiles, the expression beautiful and terrible. "The price is simple. Mei wished to regress another. Now she shall experience regression herself—not through chemicals, but through divine will. For twenty years, she shall live as the child she secretly yearned to be."

Your stomach drops as understanding dawns. Not death. Not pain. Something both more merciful and more exquisitely humiliating.

You sink to your knees before Idun, head bowed in submission. "I accept your judgment," you whisper, voice trembling. "But please, spare my friends. They only tried to help me. The fault is mine alone."

Idun's golden light pulses, casting your shadow long against the nursery wall. Her laughter is like wind chimes in a storm—beautiful and chilling.

"How noble you sound," she muses, circling you. "How maternal, protecting your friends as you failed to protect your own position in this household." She stops before you, tilting your chin up with one finger. "But no. Molly provided the means. This... Veronica you claim not to know would have encouraged you further had fate continued its course. Twenty years as children—all three of you."

David steps forward, his face ashen. "This is insane. You can't just... transform adults into children. There are laws, there's reality—"

"Reality?" Idun interrupts, her voice suddenly thunderous. The nursery walls seem to ripple like water. "I am older than your concept of reality, David Chen. I watched your ancestors crawl from caves and declare themselves masters of a world they barely understood."

The doorbell rings downstairs—Molly has arrived. Idun smiles, the expression not reaching her ancient eyes.

"Perfect timing," she says. "David, be a good father and bring our guest upstairs."

Your husband hesitates, caught between defiance and the undeniable power emanating from the goddess before him. Finally, he nods stiffly and leaves the room.

"You misunderstand my purpose," Idun says once you're alone. "This is not punishment. It is education. Twenty years experiencing the vulnerability you sought to inflict. Twenty years to understand what it means to be small in a world of giants."

You hear Molly's voice downstairs, tense and questioning. David's responses are too low to make out.

"Their mothers have not been contacted," Idun continues, addressing your earlier claim. "But they will be. Guardians for new children—that is the way of things."

Footsteps on the stairs. Molly appears in the doorway, her wild red curls framing a face tight with concern. Her eyes widen at the sight of Idun's glowing form.

"Mei, what the hell is—" she begins, but her words cut off as golden light envelops the room.

You feel it then—a strange tingling that begins in your fingertips and spreads inward. Your bones seem to soften, your skin to tighten. Your clothing switches to a pink onsie then grows looser, then tighter in different places. Beside you, Molly gasps, her voice rising in pitch even as her height diminishes.

The last thing you see before the transformation completes is David's face—horror and fascination warring across his features as his wife and her friend become something else entirely.

You close your eyes and exhale deeply, surrendering to the golden light that envelops your body. The tingling sensation intensifies, spreading from your fingertips to your core like honey flowing through your veins. You don't fight it—you welcome it, leaning into the regression with a strange sense of relief.

"I accept this," you whisper, your voice already higher, softer around the edges. "I deserve it."

Idun pauses, her radiance dimming slightly as she studies your face. Something flickers across her ancient features—surprise, perhaps even respect.

"Interesting," she murmurs. "Most humans fight their fate until the bitter end."

Your body continues its transformation, bones softening, limbs shortening. The onesie that once fit snugly now hangs loose around your shoulders, pooling at your feet as you shrink. Beside you, Molly struggles against her own regression, her curses becoming childish wails as her adult vocabulary slips away.

"Stop this!" David shouts, his voice cracking with panic. "You can't just—"

"I can," Idun interrupts, her tone gentle but unyielding. "But your wife's acceptance has moved me. The punishment remains, but perhaps... modified."

The goddess approaches you, you are now nearly half your former height. She kneels, bringing her luminous face level with yours. Her eyes contain galaxies, depths of wisdom no mortal could comprehend.

"Fifteen years instead of twenty," she declares. "And you will retain your adult mind, though your emotions and impulses will match your physical age. Your friend—" she gestures toward Molly, now a sobbing toddler drowning in adult clothes, "—chose resistance. She will experience complete regression for the full term."

"Thank you," you manage, your tongue feeling clumsy in your smaller mouth.

David watches in horrified fascination as his wife transforms before his eyes. You see something shift in his expression—revulsion giving way to a complex cocktail of emotions: concern, confusion, and something darker, more primal.

"What am I supposed to do with—" he begins.

"You will raise her," Idun states simply. "As you raise your daughter. Two children instead of one. A challenge worthy of a modern father, don't you think?"

The transformation slows, then stops. You look down at your body—that of a four-year-old girl, swimming in fabric. Your mind remains intact, memories preserved, but already you feel the childish impulses rising: the urge to cry, to be held, to seek comfort in the arms of an adult.

"The mothers have now been contacted," Idun says, though you never saw her make any calls. "They will arrive tomorrow, rejuvenated by my blessing, to help with this... expanded family."

You look up at David, now towering above you, and feel a single tear track down your cheek—not from sadness or fear, but from the strange relief of having your secret desire for regression fulfilled, even as punishment.

You toddle over to Molly, your small legs unsteady beneath you. She sits amidst a puddle of her adult clothing, red curls framing a tear-streaked face, her eyes wide with confusion and fear. Unlike you, her mind has regressed with her body – she's truly a toddler now, with only fragments of her adult self remaining.

"It's okay, Molly," you say, your voice high and childlike despite your adult thoughts. "Don't fight it. See?" You demonstrate by wiggling your tiny fingers and toes, accepting the strange new proportions of your body.

Molly stares at you, hiccupping between sobs. "Want mama," she whimpers, the brilliant research scientist reduced to primitive needs.

"I know," you whisper, patting her arm with your small hand. "Your mama's coming tomorrow. Idun said so."

You turn toward David, who stands frozen by the doorway, his face a battlefield of conflicting emotions. The man who left a few days ago expecting to return to his wife and infant daughter now faces a household transformed by divine intervention.

"David," you call, arms outstretched. "Hold me? Please?"

He hesitates, swallowing hard. You see the war behind his eyes – the intellectual understanding that you're still his wife, battling the visceral reality of your child-sized body.

"I don't know if I should," he says, voice strained.

"Please," you repeat, and to your horror, tears spring to your eyes unbidden. Your adult mind understands his hesitation, but your child's body responds with immediate emotional distress. "I'm scared."

Something shifts in his expression. He crosses the room and kneels beside you, gathering you into his arms with careful tenderness. Your body fits against his chest differently now – small, vulnerable, entirely encompassed by his embrace.

"This is fucked up, Mei," he whispers into your hair. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Just hold me," you reply, pressing your face against his shirt. You smell his cologne, the same scent you've known for years, but your response to it has changed – it's not arousing now, but comforting, like a security blanket.

From her golden perch by the window, Idun watches with ancient, knowing eyes. "The paternal instinct transcends conventional boundaries," she observes. "Fascinating."

David's arms tighten around you protectively. "This isn't some experiment," he snaps at the goddess. "These are people's lives."

"All mortal lives are experiments," Idun replies with a serene smile. "Brief candles burning against eternal night. I've merely... adjusted the wicks."

Molly crawls toward you and David, seeking the comfort of human contact. Her small hand clutches at your leg, creating a strange tableau – three adults transformed into a makeshift family by divine caprice.

"Tomorrow," Idun says, rising to her feet, "the mothers arrive. Tonight, you learn to navigate your new reality." She moves toward the door, her light dimming slightly. "I'll return when balance has been restored."

As the goddess departs, leaving golden footprints that fade like morning dew, you remain in David's arms, your adult mind racing with implications while your child's body seeks only the comfort of his embrace.

You look down at yourself, drowning in the adult onesie that now pools around your feet like a deflated parachute. The absurdity of your situation hits you—a twenty-nine-year-old former dancer trapped in a four-year-old's body, with all your adult thoughts intact but increasingly childish impulses bubbling to the surface.

"David," you call, your voice high and bell-like, "we need clothes. Real kids' clothes." You gesture at Molly, who sits amid her adult garments, thumb now firmly planted in her mouth. "She can't stay like this."

Your husband runs his hand through his disheveled hair, eyes wild with the impossibility of it all. "Jesus Christ, Mei. Where am I supposed to get children's clothes at this hour?"

"The baby's room," you suggest, practical even in your diminished state. "There must be things I bought that were too big for her. And maybe some of my old dance t-shirts could work as nightgowns?"

David nods, grateful for the concrete task. He disappears down the hallway, returning minutes later with an armful of clothes—onesies meant for your daughter's future, soft cotton shirts, even a pair of tiny leggings still bearing their price tags.

"Let me help you," he says, kneeling before you. His fingers tremble as he lifts the adult onesie over your head. You stand naked before him, your husband-turned-caretaker, and watch the complex emotions war across his face—recognition of your familiar eyes in this unfamiliar form, the protective instinct battling with the knowledge of who you really are.

"It's still me," you whisper, though your voice betrays you with its childish lilt.

"I know," he responds, but his averted gaze tells a different story as he quickly slips a t-shirt over your head. It hangs to your knees like a dress. "This'll have to do for now."

You turn to Molly, who watches with wide, frightened eyes. Unlike you, she doesn't understand what's happened—her brilliant mind reduced to toddler comprehension.

"Molly's turn for dress-up," you say, adopting a singsong tone that seems to calm her. You take a small pair of leggings from David and approach her. "Arms up, sweetie."

She complies, docile now that the initial shock has passed. As you help David dress her in a too-large t-shirt and leggings, you're struck by how quickly you've adapted to your new role—neither fully child nor fully adult, but something uncanny in between.

"What happens now?" David asks, sitting back on his heels once you're both dressed. The question hangs in the air, impossibly complex.

"Now we wait for tomorrow," you answer, surprising yourself with the calm acceptance in your voice. "For the mothers. And we figure out how to be... whatever we are now."

Molly toddles over to the window, pressing her small palms against the glass. "Pretty," she murmurs, pointing at the sunset painting the sky in shades of gold—the same gold as Idun's light.

You join her, standing on tiptoes to see the view that was once at your eye level. "Yes," you agree. "Pretty."

Behind you, David watches his transformed family with eyes that can't quite believe what they're seeing, but are already adjusting to this new reality—one where his wife and her friend have become children under his care, where Norse goddesses dispense judgment from nursery windows, where nothing will ever be the same again.

"David, can you call my mother?" you ask, your child's voice making the request sound oddly formal. "She should know what she's walking into tomorrow." You wrap your small arms around yourself, the oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder. "It's not going to be pretty." 

David looks at you, his expression caught between disbelief and exhaustion. "Your mother? Christ, Mei, I can barely process this myself. What am I supposed to tell her? 'Hello, Mrs. Chen, your daughter pissed off a Norse goddess and now she's four years old again'?"

"Just tell her something happened," you insist, stomping your foot with childish frustration that surprises even you. "Tell her I need her."

He sighs, running his hands through his hair. "Fine. But I'm putting it on speaker. This is your mess."

David retrieves his phone—no longer apple blossoms, thankfully—and dials your mother's number. Each ring sends your heart racing faster, your child's body responding with exaggerated anxiety to a situation your adult mind recognizes as merely uncomfortable.

"Wei?" Your mother's crisp voice fills the room. Even through the tinny speaker, her tone carries decades of carefully cultivated disappointment.

"Mrs. Chen, it's David," your husband begins, his voice strained. "Something's happened with Mei. She... needs you to come tomorrow."

"What has happened?" Your mother's suspicion cuts through the connection. "Is the baby well?"

"The baby's fine," David assures her. "It's Mei who's... changed."

"Changed how?" The familiar impatience in her voice makes you cringe. Even in your four-year-old body, you feel the weight of her judgment.

"It's complicated," David hedges. "There was an... incident. With a goddess."

Silence stretches across the line, taut as a wire. Then your mother laughs—a sharp, dismissive sound. "Goddess? David, are you drinking? This is not funny."

"I'm not joking," he insists. "Please, just come tomorrow morning. Early. You'll understand when you get here."

"This is ridiculous," she snaps. "Put Mei on the phone."

David looks at you helplessly. You step forward on unsteady legs and take a deep breath.

"Ma," you say, your child's voice high and clear. "It's me."

Another silence, longer this time. "Who is this child?" your mother demands. "Where is my daughter?"

"It's me, Ma," you repeat, tears welling in your eyes unbidden. "I made a mistake. A big one. Please come tomorrow."

The line goes dead. Your mother has hung up.

"Well," David says, pocketing his phone. "That went about as well as expected."

You collapse onto the floor, overwhelmed by emotions too big for your small body. Beside you, Molly plays contentedly with the hem of her oversized shirt, already adapting to her new reality in ways your conflicted mind cannot.

"She'll come," you whisper, more to yourself than to David. "She always does, even when she's angry. Especially when she's angry."

Outside, the sun sets on your first evening as a child again, casting long shadows across the nursery floor—harbingers of the reckoning to come.

You wake to the sensation of warm wetness spreading between your thighs, your body's betrayal complete in this child-sized form. The morning light filters through the nursery curtains, casting soft patterns across the floor where Molly sleeps on a makeshift pallet beside you. The distant sound of the doorbell jolts you fully awake.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs—David, moving with the resigned efficiency of a man who hasn't slept. The murmur of adult voices drifts up from below, followed by a woman's sharp intake of breath.

"My baby! Oh my God, my baby!" The voice crescendos as it approaches, and then the nursery door flies open. Patricia Winters stands frozen in the doorway, her plump frame rigid with shock, auburn curls—so like Molly's adult ones—escaping from a hasty ponytail. Her eyes dart from the sleeping child on the floor to you, perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed in your soaked pull-up.

"You must be Mei," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "David tried to explain, but I didn't..." She trails off, shaking her head as if to clear it. "I couldn't possibly have understood."

Molly stirs at the sound of her mother's voice, small fists rubbing sleep-crusted eyes. Recognition dawns slowly, then all at once. "Mama?" she whimpers, the single word carrying all the vulnerability her adult self would never allow.

Patricia crosses the room in three quick strides, dropping to her knees beside her daughter. "I'm here, sweetheart. Mama's here." She gathers Molly into her arms, rocking her as though she truly is the toddler she appears to be.

You shift uncomfortably, the wet diaper cold now against your skin. The intimacy of the moment between mother and daughter makes you feel like an intruder, even as your own childish body yearns for similar comfort.

"The doorbell again," David calls from the hallway. "More visitors."

Patricia looks up from Molly's curls, her eyes finding yours with unexpected kindness. "Let's get you changed, honey. Can't have you sitting in that wet diaper." She gestures to the changing table that once seemed so distant from your adult concerns. "Your mother will be here soon, I imagine."

The mention of your mother sends a chill through you that has nothing to do with your wet state. You nod mutely, allowing Patricia to lift you with surprising strength and place you on the changing table.

"I raised four kids," she explains, efficiently removing the sodden pull-up. "Nothing I haven't seen before." Her hands are gentle but matter-of-fact as she cleans you, her focus split between the task and Molly, who clings to her leg like a barnacle.

The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time. Voices rise from below—unfamiliar ones, a woman's cultured tones and another, younger voice tight with anxiety.

"Veronica and Eleanor," Patricia murmurs, taping a fresh diaper around your hips. "David said they'd be coming too." She helps you into a pair of leggings, hiding the evidence of your regression beneath ordinary children's clothes.

From downstairs comes the unmistakable sound of your mother's voice, sharp with demand. "Where is my daughter? Where is Mei?"

Patricia's eyes meet yours, a world of understanding in their depths. "Ready to face the music, little one?"

You aren't. Not remotely. But as the sound of footsteps approaches once more, you realize you have no choice.

You take Patricia's hand, your small fingers curling instinctively around her larger ones as you descend the stairs. Each step feels like a descent into judgment, your mother's voice growing clearer as you approach.

"Where is she? What kind of nonsense is this?" Your mother's clipped Mandarin cuts through the air. As you round the corner, Lin Chen stands rigid in the entryway, her tailored pantsuit as immaculate as her disapproval.

Her eyes find you—tiny, diapered, clutching a stranger's hand—and something in her face collapses before immediately rebuilding itself into a fortress of composure.

"Mei?" The single syllable carries decades of expectation and disappointment.

You try to speak, but your child's throat constricts with unexpected emotion. Instead of the dignified explanation you planned, you burst into tears—loud, hiccuping sobs that echo your actual regression.

"This is what happens when you chase Western frivolities instead of stability," your mother says, addressing David rather than you. "Dancing, then this wet nurse nonsense. Now look at her."

Patricia's hand tightens around yours. "Mrs. Chen, I understand this is shocking, but your daughter needs support right now, not criticism."

Your mother's gaze cuts to Patricia like a blade. "And who are you to tell me how to mother my child?"

"I'm Patricia Winters, Molly's mother. And right now, I'm the one holding your daughter's hand while you stand there judging her."

The front door opens again, admitting two women—one in her fifties with silver-streaked black hair and aristocratic bearing, the other younger, perhaps thirty, with a nervous energy that fills the already crowded entryway.

"Eleanor," David says, nodding to the older woman. "And Veronica. Thank you for coming."

"Where is she?" Eleanor demands, her British accent crisp with worry. "Where's Amber?"

Before anyone can answer, golden light filters through the windows, coalescing into the form of Idun. Her presence silences the room, even your mother rendered speechless by the goddess's undeniable power.

"I believe I owe you all an explanation," Idun says, her voice like honey over gravel. "My name is Idun Apalder, though some of you knew me as Amber. I am the Norse goddess of youth and rejuvenation, and I came here out of curiosity about modern motherhood."

Your mother recovers first. "Ridiculous superstition," she spits. "Mei, is this some elaborate excuse for whatever trouble you've gotten yourself into? Always the drama with you. Always the disappointment."

Each word lands like a physical blow, reopening wounds you thought had scarred over years ago. You shrink further into Patricia's side, your adult mind drowning in childish hurt.

"Mother, please," you whisper.

"Don't 'mother' me when you've reduced yourself to... this." She gestures at your diminutive form with disgust. "I raised you for greatness, not to end up in diapers again at thirty."

Idun goes on to explain what Mei, with the help of Molly and Veronica, tried to do to her.  The mothers look on horrified while you emotionally shrink even further, clinging to Patricia's arm in shame.

Eleanor steps forward, fury radiating from her elegant frame. "Veronica!  How could you?  Experimental hormones? Gods, what were you thinking?"

Veronica—young, pretty, with the harried look of an executive assistant—rolls her eyes. "How was I supposed to know it was dangerous?  Or how far Mei would go?  This is NOT my problem."

"Not your problem?" Eleanor advances on her. "Look around you! This is absolutely your problem!"

Veronica backs toward the door. "I'm not dealing with this insanity.  Later Mei, best of luck."  Mei's face falls at her supposed friend's lack of concern.

As she turns to leave, Idun's hand shoots out, catching Veronica's wrist. "Running from responsibility," the goddess murmurs. "How very... immature."

Golden light envelops Veronica. When it fades, a toddler stands in her place, drowning in adult clothes, her face contorted in confusion before erupting in wails of terror.

"Perhaps you need to fully grow up again," Idun says, lifting the screaming child and placing her in Eleanor's stunned arms. "And you," she turns to Eleanor, "could use a reminder of youth's vigor without its folly."

Another flash of light, and Eleanor transforms—not to childhood, but to her mid-twenties, her silver-streaked hair now glossy black, her skin smooth but her eyes retaining their hard-won wisdom.

"Do better with her this time," Idun intones to Eleanor, who nods in stunned silence.

Your mother watches this display with horror dawning on her perfect features. For the first time in your memory, Lin Chen is speechless.

Your mother's face then shifts into a mask of maternal concern so practiced you almost believe it. "Mei Fly, come to Mommy. It's okay, I forgive you." The childhood nickname she abandoned when you turned twelve now weaponized to lure you back into her orbit.

You want to shake your head, to clutch Patricia tighter, but decades of conditioning freeze you in place. Your body—this small, vulnerable vessel—betrays you with its instinctive response to your mother's command. Your feet shuffle forward before you can stop them.

"That's right," your mother coos, her voice honeyed in a way you've never heard before. "Mother knows best."

Idun watches with ancient eyes that miss nothing. "Is this what you truly want, little one?"

Your mouth opens, but the words don't come. The weight of your mother's expectations presses down on you, crushing the rebellion before it can form. You take another step toward her, your hand slipping from Patricia's warm grasp.

"No," Patricia whispers, but it's not her place to interfere. This battle belongs to you alone.

Your mother extends her hand, perfectly manicured nails gleaming under the hallway light. "We'll fix this together, Mei Mei. Just like we fixed your dancing when you kept falling during recitals. Remember?"

You remember. The endless drills, the criticism disguised as help, the way she'd watch from the wings with narrowed eyes that promised consequences for imperfection.

"I—" you begin, but your child's voice catches on unshed tears.

"Brave little Mei Fly," Idun says, her tone gentle but probing, "do you wish a new mother?"

The question hangs in the air like a lifeline. You reach for it in your mind, but your body continues its betrayal, moving toward the familiar pain of your mother's love rather than the unknown mercy of change.

"She doesn't need a new mother," Lin Chen snaps, her hand closing around your wrist with familiar firmness. "She has a perfectly good one who sacrificed everything to give her opportunities."

You look up at Idun, wanting to nod, to say yes, to choose something—anything—different than this cycle of inadequacy and disappointment. But the words die in your throat, strangled by the fear of what comes after rebellion.

"I thought so," your mother says, mistaking your silence for submission. She pulls you against her side, her grip just tight enough to hurt. "We're going home, Mei. I'll take care of everything."

Across the room, Molly burrows deeper into Patricia's embrace, watching you with wide, sympathetic eyes. David stands helpless, caught between divine intervention and family dynamics he can't possibly navigate.

Idun's golden light dims slightly. "The choice was yours to make," she says, her disappointment palpable. "And you have made it."

Your mother's smile is a victory flag planted on the battlefield of your will. Once again, she has won without firing a shot.

You dig your heels into the hardwood floor, your small body trembling with effort as you wrench your wrist from your mother's grasp. The sudden motion sends you stumbling backward, but you don't fall. Instead, you pivot deliberately toward Patricia, your eyes never leaving her kind face.

"No," you say, your child's voice ringing with adult conviction. "I choose her."

The silence that follows feels electric. Patricia's eyes widen, her hand instinctively reaching toward you as if pulled by an invisible thread. Your mother's face contorts, the mask of maternal concern shattering to reveal the raw fury beneath.

"How dare you?" Lin Chen hisses, her perfect composure fracturing like thin ice. "After everything I've sacrificed? You ungrateful little—"

"Enough," Patricia interrupts, stepping forward to place a protective hand on your shoulder. "She's made her choice."

Your mother's laugh is brittle as breaking glass. "Choice? She's a child. My child. And you—" she turns to Idun, finger jabbing toward the goddess's serene face, "you think you can play god in my family? Return my daughter to her proper form immediately, or I'll make sure everyone knows what kind of monster you are."

Idun tilts her head, golden light pulsing around her like a heartbeat. "Threaten me again, Lin Chen."

"I'll do more than threaten," your mother spits. "I'll destroy you. I have connections you couldn't begin to imagine. By tomorrow, you'll be nothing but a cautionary tale."

Idun's smile is terrible in its beauty. "You never deserved her," she says softly. "Not her love, not her fear, not even her resentment. You never deserved to be her mother at all."

Golden light engulfs Lin Chen, who screams once—a sound of pure, animal terror—before it cuts off abruptly. The light intensifies, forcing everyone to shield their eyes. When it fades, a toddler stands where your mother once was, her pantsuit pooled around her tiny feet like a deflated balloon.

"Mei?" the child whimpers, confused eyes darting around the room. "Mei help?"

"She remembers you," Idun explains, her voice gentle now. "But not as her daughter. As her big sister. The one who always protected her from the consequences of her own cruelty."

You stare at the toddler version of your mother, her familiar features softened by youth, the hardness in her eyes replaced by vulnerability. Something shifts inside you—not forgiveness, exactly, but a loosening of the knot that has bound you to her judgment for decades.

"What happens now?" you ask, looking up at Patricia, whose arm has wrapped securely around your shoulders.

"Now," Patricia says, her voice steady despite the extraordinary circumstances, "we figure out how to be a family. All of us."

David nods, finally finding his voice. "Together," he agrees, moving to lift the confused toddler who was once your mother. "One impossible step at a time."