Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 1
Free (Technically)

The probation officer's van pulled away from the curb at 2:47 PM on a Thursday, taking with it the last physical evidence that Ash Walsh had spent the better part of three weeks under house arrest.

Ash stood in the driveway, one hand wrapped around his bare ankle where the monitor had been. The skin was pale there, slightly indented from the constant pressure. He rotated his foot, feeling the absence like a phantom limb—except this was a phantom shackle, and good fucking riddance.

Twenty-three days. He'd done twenty-three days of sitting in his childhood bedroom, listening to his mother's footsteps pause outside his door every hour like clockwork. Twenty-three days of online NA meetings where everyone's face was a pixelated mask of forced optimism. Twenty-three days of proving—proving—that he could do this.

And he had. No using. No slips. Not even close.

The afternoon sun felt different on his face. Warmer, maybe. Or maybe that was just what freedom felt like after three weeks of watching it through a window.

"Ash?" His mother's voice came from the doorway behind him. Careful. Cautious. That particular tone that meant she was about to ask him something she already knew the answer to but needed to hear him say it anyway. "You coming inside?"

He turned. Shannon Walsh stood framed in the doorway, one hand on the doorframe like she was bracing herself. She was dressed for work—she'd taken the afternoon off for the monitor removal, something she'd scheduled two weeks in advance like it was a doctor's appointment—but her cardigan was already rumpled, pulled tight around herself despite the April warmth.

"Yeah," Ash said. "Just... give me a second."

She nodded but didn't move. Watching. Always watching.

He walked back up the driveway slowly, feeling the concrete under his sneakers, the give of the grass when he stepped onto the lawn. Stupid things to notice. Stupid things to feel grateful for. But three weeks of being legally confined to a 1,200-square-foot radius did that to a person.

Shannon stepped back to let him through the door, and Ash caught the way her eyes tracked down to his ankle one more time, like she needed to confirm the monitor was really gone.

"I'm proud of you," she said quietly.

Ash's jaw tightened. "Thanks."

"I mean it. You did really well. Your father and I—"

"Mom." He turned to face her in the entryway, forcing himself to soften his tone. "I know. Thank you."

She nodded, arms still wrapped around herself. "Are you hungry? I could make—"

"Actually," Ash said, "I was thinking about going out tonight."

The change in her face was instant. Not dramatic—Shannon Walsh didn't do dramatic—but there. A tightening around her eyes, a barely perceptible shift in her posture.

"Out," she repeated.

"Yeah. Just... I don't know. Get dinner somewhere. See some people."

"What people?"

There it was. He'd known it was coming, but it still landed like a punch.

"Friends, Mom. Just friends."

"Which friends?"

Ash felt his teeth grind together. Forced himself to breathe. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Shannon said, and her voice was still that careful kind of calm, but something sharp lived underneath it. "It matters. You know it matters."

"I've been clean for almost a month—"

"Twenty-three days."

"—and I did everything right. Everything. I went to the meetings, I stayed home, I wore that fucking—" He caught himself. Breathed. "I wore the monitor. I did what you asked."

"We didn't ask, Ash. The court asked."

"Fine. I did what the court asked. And now I don't have the monitor anymore, so—"

"So you think you're ready to just jump back into your old life?"

"That's not what I said."

"Isn't it?" Shannon moved closer, and Ash saw it then—the fear underneath the control. The barely-held-together terror that she'd been carrying for weeks, maybe months, maybe years. "You want to go out. See 'friends.' Get dinner 'somewhere.' You won't tell me who or where, and I'm supposed to just... what? Trust that this time will be different?"

"Yes," Ash said, and he hated how his voice cracked on the word. "Yeah, Mom. You're supposed to trust me."

Shannon's eyes went glossy. She blinked rapidly, looking away. "I'm trying."

"Are you?"

"Don't." The word came out sharp enough that Ash actually took a step back. Shannon pressed her fingers to her temples, that gesture she did when she was trying not to lose it. "Don't make this about me. You know what the counselor said. The first ninety days are the most critical. You're not even at thirty yet."

"So what, I'm supposed to stay locked in this house until I hit some magic number?"

"I'm not asking you to stay locked in the house. I'm asking you to give it a little more time before you start testing boundaries."

"Testing boundaries? Jesus Christ, I want to go get dinner—"

"With who, Ash?" Shannon's voice rose despite herself, and she immediately looked toward the stairs like she was checking if Patrick had heard. He was still at the office. Wouldn't be home for another hour at least. "You're not answering the question. Who do you want to see?"

Ash felt something hot and familiar coil in his chest. The same feeling that had gotten him into trouble a hundred times before—that fuck-you reflex that made him want to push just because someone told him not to.

But he caught it. Breathed through it. Tried a different angle.

"Jordan texted me," he said. "We were just gonna grab food. Maybe walk around downtown."

The name landed like a grenade.

"No." Shannon's voice went flat. "Absolutely not."

"Mom—"

"No. Not Jordan."

"Jordan's my friend—"

"Jordan is someone you used with, Ash. That's not the same thing."

"People can change—"

"Have they?" Shannon's eyes locked onto his, and there was something almost desperate in them now. "Has Jordan changed? Because last I checked, Jordan was the person who called you at two in the morning six months ago and you disappeared for three days."

"That was different—"

"It's always different." Shannon's voice cracked. She pressed her hand to her mouth, visibly trying to regain control. When she spoke again, it was quieter, but somehow worse. "It's always different, and it's always 'just this once,' and it's always someone else's fault, and I always get the call from the hospital."

Ash felt like he'd been slapped. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

"I'm not using anymore."

"You've said that before."

"I mean it this time—"

"You meant it every time!" Shannon's control finally snapped, voice rising to something close to a shout. "You meant it after the first overdose, and the second one, and the time you stole my jewelry to pay for—" She stopped herself, hand over her mouth again, eyes squeezed shut.

The silence stretched between them like a wound.

"I'm sorry," Ash said finally, and he was. For all of it. For the jewelry, for the hospital calls, for the three weeks of his mother's footsteps pausing outside his door every hour because she was too afraid to let him out of her awareness for longer than that.

But he was also twenty-four fucking years old, and he'd done everything they'd asked, and the monitor was off, and he just wanted to feel like a person again instead of a problem that needed constant supervision.

"I know you are," Shannon said quietly. Her eyes were still closed. "I know you don't want to hurt us. I know you're trying."

"Then let me try. Let me prove I can do this."

Shannon opened her eyes. Looked at him with something that might have been grief.

"Not with Jordan," she said. "Not yet. Please. Just... give it more time. Get to ninety days. Show me—show yourself—that you can stay stable first. Then we'll talk about expanding your circle."

"So I am still locked in the house."

"You're not locked—"

"I'm an adult, Mom. Legally. The court doesn't own me anymore. The monitor's gone. I can leave if I want to."

It was a bluff and they both knew it. He had nowhere else to go. No apartment, no job, no money beyond what his parents gave him for "essentials." His entire life had contracted down to this house, these rooms, these people who loved him and feared him in equal measure.

Shannon's face did something complicated. "You're right. You can leave. But I'm asking you not to. I'm asking you to wait. Just a little longer. Is that really so unreasonable?"

Put like that—calm, rational, mother to son—it should have been easy to say yes. To agree. To go back to his room and give it another week, another month, however long she needed to feel safe again.

But Ash felt like the walls were closing in. Like the monitor was still there, invisible but present, tracking his every movement. Like he'd never be free of it, no matter how many days he stayed clean.

"I did twenty-three days," he said quietly. "I'll do ninety. I'll do a year if that's what it takes. But you can't ask me to do it like this. You can't ask me to stay locked up while I prove I don't need to be locked up. That's not recovery. That's just... a different kind of prison."

Shannon's eyes filled again. "I can't lose you."

"You won't."

"You don't know that." Her voice broke completely. "You don't know that, Ash. I've pulled you back from the edge so many times I've lost count. I've done CPR. I've sat in hospital waiting rooms at three in the morning. I've watched you almost die, and I—" She pressed her fist against her chest like she was trying to hold something inside. "I can't do it again. I can't."

Ash felt the fight drain out of him. "Mom..."

"Just give it more time. Please. For me. Just... let's get you stable first. Then you can see whoever you want."

He wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that "stable" was a moving target, that there would always be another milestone, another reason to wait. That this was what addiction stole—not just your sobriety, but your credibility. Your right to be trusted.

But his mother was crying in the entryway, and Ash was so tired of being the reason she cried.

"Okay," he said finally. "Okay. I'll wait."

Shannon's shoulders sagged with relief. She stepped forward like she might hug him, then seemed to think better of it. "Thank you."

Ash nodded. Turned toward the stairs.

"Ash?"

He looked back.

"I am proud of you," Shannon said. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now. But I am."

He managed something that might have been a smile. "Yeah. Thanks."

His room looked exactly the same as it had that morning, but it felt different now. Smaller. The walls pressed in closer. His art supplies sat on the desk where he'd left them—charcoal pencils, sketchbooks, half-finished pieces he'd been working on during the house arrest. Before, they'd felt like a lifeline. Now they just felt like evidence of the cage.

Ash lay back on his bed—the same bed he'd had since high school, because he'd never managed to successfully move out for longer than a few months at a time—and stared at the ceiling.

His phone sat on the nightstand. Jordan's text was still there, sent that morning: heard u got the ankle bracelet off. wanna celebrate?

He'd been so sure he'd say yes. So sure that today would be different, that the monitor coming off meant something real.

But here he was. Still in this room. Still under his parents' roof. Still waiting for permission to live his own life.

Ninety days. He could do ninety days. He'd do whatever it took to prove he wasn't the person who'd stolen his mother's jewelry, who'd disappeared for three days, who'd woken up in ambulances with his vision blurred and his mother's face hovering above him.

He'd prove it.

And then maybe—maybe—they'd let him breathe.

Patrick Walsh came home at 6:15 PM with Thai takeout and the carefully neutral expression he'd perfected over thirty years of practicing law. Shannon met him at the door before he'd even set the food down.

"We need to talk," she said quietly.

Patrick looked past her toward the stairs. "Is he—"

"In his room. He's fine. But we need to talk."

They moved to the kitchen. Patrick unpacked the food while Shannon stood with her arms crossed, staring at nothing.

"The monitor came off today," she said.

"I know. That's why I got the good pad thai." Patrick attempted a smile. It didn't land.

"He wanted to go out tonight. See Jordan."

Patrick's hands stilled over the takeout containers. "What did you say?"

"I told him no. I asked him to wait until ninety days."

"And?"

"And he agreed. But Patrick..." Shannon's voice wavered. "He's not wrong. He's an adult. He did everything we asked. The court doesn't have any hold on him anymore. We can't actually make him stay."

Patrick set down the container he was holding. Turned to face his wife fully.

"Do you think he's ready?" he asked.

"No. God, no. It's barely been three weeks. The counselor said—"

"I know what the counselor said. I'm asking what you think."

Shannon was quiet for a long moment. "I think he's trying," she said finally. "I think he means it this time. But I also think he's said that before, and I—" Her voice cracked. "I can't go through another overdose, Patrick. I can't."

Patrick moved around the island to stand beside her. Didn't touch her—they'd lost the habit of casual comfort somewhere in the years of crisis management—but stood close enough that she could feel him there.

"He's twenty-four years old," Patrick said quietly. "If he wants to leave, he can leave. We can't stop him."

"I know."

"But we can make it clear what our boundaries are. What we're willing to support and what we're not."

Shannon looked up at him. "Meaning?"

"Meaning if he wants to live here, he follows our rules. Not because he's a child, but because this is our home. And our rule is that for the next two months, he focuses on recovery. No contact with old using friends. No high-risk situations. If he can't accept that..." Patrick's jaw tightened. "Then he needs to figure out another living situation."

"You'd kick him out?" Shannon's voice was barely a whisper.

"I'd give him a choice. Stay here and commit to recovery, or leave and make his own decisions. We can't force him to do this. But we also can't enable him."

Shannon closed her eyes. "He'll see it as punishment."

"He'll see it as boundaries. Which is something he needs to learn to respect."

"And if he chooses to leave?"

Patrick was quiet for a long moment. "Then we hope he comes back."

Shannon turned away, pressing her palms flat against the counter. Patrick watched his wife's shoulders shake with silent tears and felt the weight of every failed intervention, every broken promise, every 3 AM phone call from the hospital settling over him like a familiar coat.

Twenty-four years ago, he'd held his newborn son and felt nothing but possibility. Now he stood in his kitchen trying to figure out how to save that same child from himself.

"I'm tired," Shannon said finally, her voice small.

"I know."

"I'm so tired of being afraid."

Patrick reached out then, put his hand on her shoulder. She leaned into it.

"Ninety days," he said. "We ask him for ninety days. If he can do that—truly do that, not just stay clean but build actual stability—then we start loosening the reins. But slowly. Carefully."

"And if he can't wait? If he pushes back?"

"Then we hold the line. Together."

Shannon nodded against his shoulder. After a moment, she pulled back, wiped her eyes, straightened her spine. Back to the woman who could hold everything together through sheer force of will.

"I'll bring him dinner," she said.

"Shannon—"

"He needs to eat. And I need to..." She trailed off. Didn't finish the sentence.

Patrick understood anyway. She needed to see him. Needed to confirm he was still there, still safe, still breathing. The same compulsion that had sent her past his door every hour for three weeks.

"Okay," Patrick said. "I'll save the rest for later."

Shannon fixed a plate—pad thai, spring rolls, extra sauce the way Ash liked it—and carried it upstairs. She paused outside his door, listening for... she didn't know what. Movement. Music. Signs of life.

She knocked softly. "Ash? I brought dinner."

"Come in."

He was lying on his bed, staring at his phone. He sat up when she entered, and Shannon tried not to notice how much he looked like the teenager who'd lived in this room before everything went wrong. Before the drugs, before the overdoses, before the terror became her constant companion.

"Thai," she said, setting the plate on his desk. "Your dad picked it up."

"Thanks."

She hovered in the doorway. "I'm sorry about earlier. I know you're frustrated."

Ash shrugged. "It's fine."

"It's not fine. You're right—you've been doing really well. And I'm proud of you. Your father and I both are."

"Just not proud enough to trust me."

The words landed like an accusation, and maybe they were meant to.

"It's not about trust," Shannon said carefully. "It's about—"

"The first ninety days. I know. You said." Ash looked at his phone again, then back at her. "I'm not mad, Mom. I get it. I do. You guys have been through a lot because of me."

"With you," Shannon corrected gently. "Not because of. With."

Ash's smile was sad. "Sure."

Shannon wanted to cross the room, wanted to sit on the edge of his bed like she had when he was younger, wanted to smooth his hair back and promise him everything would be okay. But she didn't know if it would be okay, and she didn't know if he'd let her touch him anyway. The distance between them felt vast even in this small room.

"Eat your dinner," she said instead. "Let me know if you need anything."

She pulled the door closed behind her and stood in the hallway, listening to the sound of her son unwrapping takeout containers, alive and safe and so, so far away.

That night, Ash lay in bed scrolling through his phone. Jordan had texted again: so?

He typed and deleted three different responses before finally settling on: can't tonight. maybe later this week?

The response came almost immediately: ur parents said no didn't they

Ash stared at the screen. Felt that familiar heat rising in his chest.

just not ready yet, he typed back. soon though

whatever man. hmu when u break out of prison

Ash tossed his phone onto the nightstand harder than necessary. Stared at the ceiling. Tried to ignore the way his chest felt tight, how the walls seemed to press in closer with every breath.

Ninety days. He could do ninety days.

He'd done ninety days before. Multiple times. It was after the ninety days that things always seemed to fall apart.

But this time would be different. It had to be.

He just had to wait.

Just had to prove himself.

Just had to...

Ash closed his eyes and tried to remember what freedom felt like. The monitor had been off for seven hours. It felt like it had never come off at all.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd feel better about this. Tomorrow he'd be grateful for parents who cared enough to set boundaries.

Tomorrow.

He almost believed it.