Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 9
Coming Home

The house looked exactly the same from the outside. Same brick facade, same front lawn, same familiar driveway. Ash had lived here on and off for his entire life. Had left this house three weeks ago in a transport van, handcuffed and screaming.

Now he was returning in a car seat, two years old, and the screaming had exhausted itself into hiccupping sobs somewhere around mile three.

Patrick pulled into the garage. Cut the engine. The sudden silence felt oppressive.

"Alright," Shannon said, her voice steady. "Let's get you inside and settled."

She got out, opened the back door, and began unbuckling the car seat straps. Ash didn't fight. What was the point? His tiny body was exhausted, his voice was shot from screaming, and every time he looked at his pudgy toddler hands he felt a fresh wave of dissociative horror.

Shannon lifted him out, settled him on her hip. He hung there limply, too defeated to struggle.

They walked through the garage, into the mudroom, through the kitchen. Everything looked enormous from this height. The counters towered above him. The kitchen table seemed absurdly tall. Even the doorways felt cavernous.

"Let's show you your room," Patrick said, leading the way upstairs.

Ash's room. His bedroom. Where his art supplies lived, where his bed was, where—

They stopped in front of his door. The door that used to have a "Keep Out" sign he'd made when he was fourteen. That used to lead to his sanctuary.

Patrick opened it.

Ash's breath caught.

The room was completely transformed. Every trace of him—of Ash—had been erased.

Where his full-size bed had been, there was now a white crib with high bars. Where his desk with art supplies had been, a changing table. Where his bookshelf had stood, a toy chest overflowing with brightly colored toddler toys. The walls, previously covered in his own artwork and band posters, were now painted a soft blue with a border of alphabet letters running along the top.

A rocking chair sat in the corner. A mobile with cartoon animals hung above the crib. Everything smelled of fresh paint and new carpet and something sweet that might have been baby powder.

On the wall above the changing table, in cheerful wooden letters, was a name:

NOAM

"No," Ash whispered. "No, no, no—"

"This is your room now," Shannon said gently but firmly. "Your nursery. We worked really hard to get it ready for you."

"Where's my stuff?" Ash's voice came out high and panicked. "Where are my things? My art? My—"

"We have it all in storage," Patrick said. "In the basement. Everything is safe. But this—" he gestured around the room, "—this is what you need right now."

"I don't need this! I need—" Ash struggled in Shannon's arms. "Put me down! Put me down right now!"

Shannon set him on his feet. Ash immediately stumbled—his center of gravity was all wrong, his legs were too short—but he managed to stay upright. He tried to run for the door.

Patrick stepped in front of it. Not grabbing him, just blocking. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Away from here! I can't—I won't—" Ash tried to push past Patrick's legs. Might as well have been trying to move a wall.

"Noam." Patrick's voice was calm but immovable. "This is your home. This is your room. You're not going anywhere."

"Don't call me that!" Ash's voice broke. "My name is Ash! It's ASH!"

"Your name is Noam Francis Walsh," Patrick said, unmoved. "That's who you are now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

"I'll never accept it! Never! You can't make me—"

"Actually," Shannon said quietly, "we can. That's what conservatorship means, sweetheart. We make the decisions. You live with them."

The matter-of-fact delivery of it—the complete lack of apology or guilt—hit Ash harder than any amount of anger would have.

He looked between his parents. Waiting for one of them to crack. To show remorse. To say they were sorry, they'd made a mistake, they'd fix this somehow.

But Shannon just stood there, composed and resolute. And Patrick's expression was firm, almost... peaceful. Like he'd made a decision and was at peace with it.

"Where's my bed?" Ash asked desperately. "My actual bed? Where did you put it?"

"We donated it," Shannon said. "You have a crib now. That's what you need."

"I don't need a crib! I'm twenty-four years old!"

"You're two years old," Patrick corrected. "And two-year-olds sleep in cribs. For safety."

Ash felt his chest tightening. He looked at the crib—at the high bars that would cage him in, at the mobile hanging above it like he was an infant, at the fitted sheet with cartoon animals on it.

"I won't sleep in that."

"Yes, you will," Patrick said simply. "When it's bedtime, you'll sleep in your crib. Just like you'll eat in your high chair, and play with your toys, and wear the clothes we pick out for you. Those aren't negotiations, Noam. Those are just facts."

"Stop calling me that!" Ash screamed. "Stop it! My name is Ash! Ash Wilde Walsh! That's who I am!"

"That's who you were," Shannon said, her voice gentle but unyielding. "Ash made choices that led to this. Noam is who you are now. And Noam is going to have a different life. A better life."

"A better life?" Ash laughed, hysterical. "You turned me into a fucking toddler and you think that's better?"

"Language," Patrick said, but without heat. Like he was noting a fact.

"I'll say whatever I want! You can't control what I—"

"We absolutely can control your behavior," Patrick interrupted. "What we can't control is your attitude about it. You can be angry. You can hate us. You can scream and cry and throw tantrums. But at the end of the day, you're going to do what we tell you to do. Because we're your parents, and you're a two-year-old child in our care."

The absolute certainty in his voice was terrifying.

This wasn't the dad who'd wavered and second-guessed and let Ash manipulate him with guilt. This was someone new. Someone resolved.

"I want to talk to Eden," Ash said, switching tactics. "I want to call my sister."

"Eden is at school," Shannon said. "She'll visit in a few weeks, once you're more settled."

"A few weeks? I want to talk to her now!"

"That's not happening today," Patrick said. "Today, we're going to get you settled into your new routine. Tomorrow, we'll start establishing schedules and expectations. But tonight—" he checked his watch, "—it's already 3 PM, so we're going to have a snack, some playtime, dinner, bath, and bed."

The casual recitation of a toddler's schedule—applied to him—made Ash want to scream again.

"I'm not doing any of that."

"Yes, you are," Shannon said. "You don't have a choice in whether you do it. Only in whether you make it difficult or easy. But either way, it's happening."

She moved toward him, and Ash backed away until he hit the wall.

"Don't touch me."

"I need to check your diaper," Shannon said calmly. "It's been a few hours since the facility changed you."

"I'm not letting you—"

Shannon crossed the distance before Ash could react, picked him up and set him on the changing table in one smooth motion. Ash kicked and squirmed, but she just held him in place with one hand—so easy, he was so small—while she checked.

"You're dry. Good. But we'll change you anyway since we're home now." She reached for the drawer.

"No! Stop! I can do it myself—"

"You can't," Shannon said matter-of-factly. "Your fine motor skills aren't developed enough, and you don't have the vocabulary to tell us when you need to be changed anyway. So this is how it works now. Multiple times a day. Every day. Until you're old enough to be potty trained."

She changed him with the efficient movements of someone who'd done this thousands of times. Which she had, Ash realized with horror. With him. When he was actually a baby. And now she was doing it again.

The violation of it—the complete loss of privacy and dignity—made Ash want to die.

When she was done, Shannon set him on the floor. "There. All fresh. Now, let's go downstairs and get you a snack."

"I don't want a snack."

"You haven't eaten since this morning. You need food." She held out her hand. "Come on."

Ash stared at her hand. At his mother, standing there calm and expectant, acting like this was all perfectly normal.

"I hate you," he said.

"I know, baby. Come on."

She didn't wait for him to take her hand. Just scooped him up again and carried him downstairs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The kitchen had been modified too. A high chair now sat at the table—white plastic with a tray, like something from a daycare. Shannon set Ash in it before he could protest, secured the tray in place.

He was trapped. The tray pressed against his stomach. His feet dangled above the floor. He couldn't get out without help.

"Let me out."

"After snack," Shannon said, already moving to the refrigerator. "How about apple slices and cheese?"

"I don't want—"

"You need to eat something," Shannon said, not as a negotiation but as a statement of fact. "You can eat what I give you, or you can sit there and watch me eat it. But you're not leaving that chair until snack time is over."

She brought over a plate—apple slices cut into tiny pieces, cubes of cheese, some crackers. Set it on the tray with a sippy cup of what looked like juice.

Ash stared at it. At the baby food presentation of it all.

"I'm not eating this."

"Okay." Shannon sat down at the table with her own drink, pulled out her phone, and started scrolling.

Ash waited for her to coax him. To plead. To offer alternatives.

She did none of those things. Just sat there, calmly checking her phone while Ash sat trapped in the high chair.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

Ash's stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since... he couldn't even remember. Yesterday morning, maybe?

"If you let me out, I'll eat at the table. Like a normal person."

"You'll eat in your high chair," Shannon said, not looking up. "That's where toddlers eat. For safety and to prevent messes."

"I won't make a mess—"

"You don't have the motor control to guarantee that," Shannon said simply. "High chair. That's not a negotiation."

Ash felt tears burning at his eyes. Hated himself for it. Hated that his stupid toddler body betrayed him with crying at the slightest frustration.

He picked up an apple slice with his pudgy fingers—God, even that felt wrong, the coordination was off—and ate it.

"Good job," Shannon said, still not looking up from her phone. Not making a big deal of it.

Ash ate the rest mechanically. The sippy cup was humiliating but his hands couldn't manage a normal cup anyway. Everything required different motor skills he didn't have anymore.

When he was done, Shannon wiped his face and hands with a damp cloth, then lifted him out of the high chair.

"Playtime," she announced.

"I don't want to play."

"You don't have to play," Shannon said. "But you're going to sit in the living room while I make dinner. You can play with the toys, or you can sit there. Your choice."

She carried him to the living room, where a baby gate now blocked the stairs. A play mat was spread on the floor, covered with toys. Blocks, trucks, plastic animals, board books.

Shannon set him on the mat. "I'll be in the kitchen. I can see you from there. Don't try to climb the gate."

"I'm not playing with these."

"Okay." Shannon went to the kitchen, visible through the doorway, and started pulling out ingredients for dinner.

Ash sat on the mat, surrounded by toddler toys, and tried to figure out what his life had become.

He looked at the blocks. Bright primary colors, large enough that a toddler couldn't choke on them.

He picked one up. Put it down. Picked up another.

Before he realized what he was doing, he'd stacked three blocks. Then four. His hands moved automatically, the toddler motor skills finding this task perfectly calibrated to his current abilities.

He knocked the tower down in horror.

No. He wasn't going to do this. Wasn't going to play with fucking blocks like he was actually two years old.

But what else was there to do?

He couldn't reach the TV remote. Couldn't work a phone even if he had one. Couldn't read the books on the shelf—too high, and probably too complex for his current vision and attention span anyway.

There was nothing but these toys.

Ash picked up a board book. "Baby Animals" the cover declared in cheerful letters. He opened it. Simple pictures, one word per page. "Puppy." "Kitten." "Duckling."

Books he'd been reading at twenty-four: Art theory. Queer literature. Complex novels.

Books he could manage now: "Baby Animals."

He threw it across the room.

"Noam," Shannon's voice came from the kitchen. Warning.

"What are you going to do?" Ash yelled back. "Punish me? Ground me? I'm already in hell!"

Shannon appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. Her expression was calm. Too calm.

"Pick up the book."

"No."

"Pick. Up. The book."

"Make me."

Shannon crossed the distance, picked up the book herself, set it back on the mat. Then she looked at Ash directly.

"Here's what's going to happen," she said, her voice level. "You're going to learn that throwing things is not acceptable. If you throw a toy again today, you'll go to timeout. If you throw something at timeout, you'll get a spanking. Those are the consequences. They're not negotiable, and they're not dependent on your feelings about them. Do you understand?"

Ash stared at her. "You're going to spank me? Like I'm an actual child?"

"You are an actual child. Physically. And yes, when you misbehave, there will be consequences." Shannon's voice didn't waver. "We're not going to let you hurt yourself, break things, or act out without limits. We love you too much for that."

"This isn't love—"

"This is exactly what love looks like," Shannon interrupted. "Real love. The kind that sets boundaries and enforces them, even when you hate us for it." She went back to the kitchen. "Thirty minutes until dinner."

Ash sat on the mat, shaking.

This was real. This was actually real. His parents weren't wavering. Weren't apologizing. Weren't going to be manipulated or guilt-tripped into doubt.

They'd made their choice, and they were committed to it.

And he was trapped.

Dinner was more of the same. High chair, cut-up food, Shannon feeding him the messier items with a spoon while he sat there humiliated and helpless.

Patrick came home in the middle of it, still in his work clothes. "How's the first day going?"

"Settling in," Shannon said. "Some resistance, but manageable."

They were talking about him like he wasn't there. Like he was an actual toddler who couldn't understand.

"I'm right here," Ash said.

"We know, sweetheart," Patrick said, loosening his tie. "We're not trying to exclude you. We're just communicating." He moved closer, looked at Ash's half-eaten dinner. "Good job eating. I'm proud of you."

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. I'm genuinely glad you're eating. The facility said some participants refuse food for the first few days." Patrick squeezed Ash's shoulder—a gesture that would have been normal before, but now just emphasized the size difference. "Keep it up."

After dinner came bath time.

Ash fought this one. Really fought. Because the idea of his mother bathing him—seeing him naked, washing him like an infant—was too much.

"I can bathe myself!"

"You can't," Shannon said patiently, already running the water in the tub. "You don't have the coordination, and you could drown in four inches of water at this age. So I'm going to help you."

"Help or do it completely?"

"I'm going to bathe you," Shannon said. "Because that's what parents do for two-year-olds."

She stripped off his clothes—another violation, he couldn't even undress himself with his clumsy toddler hands—and lifted him into the baby tub that now sat in the regular tub.

The water was warm. Shannon was gentle but thorough. Washed his hair, soaped his body, rinsed him clean. Ash closed his eyes through the whole thing, trying to dissociate, trying to be anywhere else.

"All done," Shannon said, lifting him out and wrapping him in a towel. A hooded towel with cartoon elephants on it. Because of course.

She dried him off, put him in pajamas—soft, one-piece footie pajamas with a zipper up the front—and carried him to the nursery.

"Bedtime," she announced.

"It's seven-thirty," Ash protested.

"Which is bedtime for toddlers," Patrick said, appearing in the doorway. He'd changed into casual clothes, looked ready to help with the bedtime routine. "You need a lot of sleep for proper development."

"I don't need—"

"Into the crib," Shannon said.

Ash looked at the crib. At the high bars. At the fitted sheet with its cartoon animals. At the reality of where he'd be sleeping for the foreseeable future.

"No."

"Noam—"

"No! I won't! You can't make me!" He tried to run past them to the door—

Patrick caught him easily. Picked him up. Carried him to the crib and set him inside before Ash could even process what was happening.

Ash immediately tried to climb out. Gripped the bars, tried to pull himself up—

His tiny body couldn't manage it. The bars were too high, his arms too weak. He fell back onto the mattress.

Tried again. Fell again.

"The crib is designed so you can't get out," Patrick said calmly. "For your safety. So you might as well settle down."

"I won't sleep in here!"

"Yes, you will." Shannon pulled a stuffed animal from somewhere—a soft teddy bear. "Here. For comfort."

Ash slapped it away. "I don't want that!"

Shannon just picked it up and set it in the corner of the crib. "It's there if you change your mind."

Patrick turned off the overhead light, leaving only a nightlight glowing softly in the corner. "We'll be right down the hall if you need anything. But Noam—" his voice was firm, "—you stay in this crib until morning. No trying to climb out. It's dangerous, and we'll hear you if you try."

"I hate you," Ash said, gripping the bars. "I hate you both so much."

"I know," Shannon said softly. "Good night, baby. We love you."

They left. The door closed most of the way, leaving just a crack of light from the hallway.

Ash stood in the crib, gripping the bars, and screamed.

"LET ME OUT! YOU CAN'T DO THIS! LET ME OUT!"

No one came.

He screamed until his voice was hoarse. Until his tiny body was exhausted. Until he couldn't stand anymore and sank down onto the mattress.

He could hear his parents downstairs. Talking quietly. The TV on low. The sounds of normal evening activities.

Like everything was fine.

Like they hadn't just locked their adult son in a crib.

Ash curled up on the mattress, pulled the blanket around himself, and cried.

Cried for everything he'd lost. For the autonomy stripped away. For the body that wasn't his anymore. For the life he'd destroyed and the one he'd been forced into.

Eventually, exhaustion won. His eyes closed despite himself.

His last conscious thought was: This is day one. I have sixteen years of this.

Then sleep claimed him, and the nightmare continued.