Walsh Family Universe V2

Day three began the same way day two had—with the humiliation of waking up wet and helpless in a crib. But this time, when Shannon came in with her cheerful "Good morning, sweetie!" Ash didn't even bother responding.

He just lay there, staring at the mobile above him, wondering how many more times he'd wake up to this exact scenario.

Five thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven more times, give or take.

"Someone's quiet this morning," Shannon observed, lowering the crib rail. "Come on, let's get you changed."

Ash let himself be lifted—what choice did he have?—and carried to the changing table. The routine was becoming familiar in the worst way. Laid down, straps secured, diaper unfastened. The cool wipe. The powder. The fresh diaper taped into place.

"There we go. All clean." Shannon lifted him down, setting him on his feet. "Now let's get you dressed for the day."

She pulled out clothes from the dresser—a striped shirt with a cartoon dinosaur on it and a pair of denim overalls. Toddler clothes. Ash's stomach turned.

"I can dress myself," he said.

Shannon paused, holding the shirt. For a moment, Ash thought she might actually let him try. Then she shook her head.

"Not yet, honey. Your fine motor skills are still developing. We'll work up to that."

"My fine motor skills are fine." But even as he said it, Ash looked down at his pudgy toddler hands and knew it was a lie. These hands didn't work the way his old ones had. The fingers were too short, the coordination all wrong.

"Arms up," Shannon instructed.

Ash didn't move.

"Arms up, please."

"No."

Shannon's expression didn't change. "Noam, we're not starting the day like this. Arms up."

"My name is Ash."

"Your name is Noam Francis Walsh." Shannon's voice remained calm, measured. "And you need to get dressed. Now, you can cooperate and we'll have a nice breakfast, or you can keep fighting me and we'll have a timeout before breakfast. Your choice."

Ash stared at her. Three days ago, she would have cajoled. Negotiated. Shown some hint of guilt or uncertainty. But that Shannon was gone. This Shannon looked at him with firm expectation, like she was simply stating facts about how the morning would proceed.

He raised his arms.

"Good boy." Shannon pulled the shirt over his head, helped his arms through the sleeves, then worked on the overalls. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Everything about this was hard. But Ash bit his tongue.

Breakfast was oatmeal again. Ash sat in the high chair—God, he hated that chair—while Shannon tied a bib around his neck and set a bowl in front of him along with a small plastic spoon.

"You can try feeding yourself today," she said. "Just take your time."

Ash picked up the spoon. His hand shook slightly—the handle felt too thick, the weight distribution wrong. He scooped up some oatmeal and tried to bring it to his mouth.

Half of it fell off the spoon before it got there. The rest smeared across his cheek.

"That's okay, you're doing great!" Shannon encouraged. "Try again."

Ash wanted to throw the spoon across the room. Wanted to flip the whole bowl over. Wanted to scream that he was twenty-four years old and he shouldn't need to learn how to feed himself.

Instead, he tried again. This time more oatmeal made it into his mouth than on his face.

"Wonderful! See, you're getting it."

It took twenty minutes to finish breakfast. By the end, Ash was exhausted and covered in oatmeal. Shannon wiped his face and hands with a damp cloth, then lifted him out of the high chair.

"Play time," she announced. "I need to do some laundry, but I'll be right in the next room."

She set him down in the living room on the foam play mat, surrounded by the same trucks and blocks and board books from yesterday. Then she disappeared into the laundry room, leaving the door open so she could see him.

Ash sat there, staring at the toys. The rage that had been simmering all morning finally bubbled over.

He picked up one of the wooden blocks and hurled it as hard as he could. It bounced off the wall, leaving a small mark in the paint.

"Noam!" Shannon appeared in the doorway instantly. "We do not throw toys."

"Fuck you."

Shannon's jaw tightened. She crossed the room, picked up Ash—he tried to twist away but she just held him more firmly—and carried him to the corner of the room.

"You're going to stand in timeout for two minutes," she said, setting him down facing the corner. "You do not use that language, and you do not throw things."

"I'll do whatever I want!"

"No, you won't." Shannon's voice was still calm. Maddeningly calm. "You'll stand here for two minutes and think about your behavior. If you come out of the corner before time is up, we'll start over."

She walked away. Ash heard her footsteps, heard her set a timer on her phone.

He lasted about ten seconds before turning around.

Shannon was standing right there, arms crossed. "Back to the corner. That's two more minutes now."

"This is bullshit!"

"And that's another minute."

"You can't—"

"Would you like to make it five minutes?"

Ash stared at her. This wasn't the mother who had cried in the courtroom. This wasn't the woman who had looked uncertain and guilty. This was someone who had made a decision and fully committed to it.

He turned back to the corner.

The timer went off after three minutes—Ash had added two more by turning around again. When Shannon told him he could come out, Ash's legs were shaking. He hadn't realized how tiring it was to just stand still in a toddler body.

"Come here, please," Shannon said, sitting down on the couch.

Ash didn't move.

"Noam. Come here."

Something in her tone made Ash's stomach drop. He walked over slowly, his heart starting to pound.

Shannon reached out and guided him to stand in front of her. "We need to have a conversation about your behavior this morning."

"I don't want—"

"I'm not asking what you want." Shannon's hands rested on his small shoulders. "You threw a toy, you used inappropriate language, and you refused to follow directions. That kind of behavior is not acceptable."

"I'm not a kid."

"Right now, you are. And kids need to learn boundaries and consequences." She took a breath. "I'm going to give you a spanking, and then we're going to move forward with our day."

Ash's eyes went wide. "What? No. No, you're not—"

But Shannon was already positioning him, laying him across her lap, one arm around his waist to hold him in place. Ash tried to struggle but his toddler body had no leverage, no strength.

"This is what happens when you throw things and use bad words," Shannon said. Her voice was still calm, still measured. Like she was explaining a simple fact. "Five spanks. Count them for me."

"I'm not—"

The first smack landed on his overalls, sharp and startling. Not agonizing, but definitely uncomfortable.

"One," Shannon said when he didn't. "Next time, you count."

Ash squeezed his eyes shut, humiliation burning through him hotter than the sting on his bottom.

Smack. "Two."

This couldn't be happening. This wasn't real.

Smack. "Three."

He was twenty-four years old. He'd survived withdrawal. He'd—

Smack. "Four."

His eyes were burning. Don't cry. Don't give her the satisfaction.

Smack. "Five."

Shannon helped him up immediately, setting him on his feet. Ash's face was red, his breath coming in short gasps. He wasn't crying—he refused to cry—but it was close.

"All done," Shannon said, her voice gentle now. "You took that very well. Come here."

She tried to pull him into a hug but Ash jerked away, stumbling back a few steps.

"Don't touch me."

"Honey—"

"Don't call me that. Don't—just don't."

Shannon sighed. "Okay. You can have some space. But we're done with the tantrum now, understood? The next time you throw something or use language like that, we'll have another conversation. Clear?"

Ash didn't answer. Just stood there, his bottom stinging, his whole body shaking with rage and shame.

"I asked you a question, Noam."

"Clear," he forced out through clenched teeth.

"Good." Shannon stood up. "Now, let's try playtime again. Nicely this time."

She walked back toward the laundry room. Ash stood frozen for a long moment, then slowly walked back to the play mat. He sat down carefully—his bottom was still tender—and stared at the blocks.

He didn't throw them this time.

But he didn't play with them either.

He just sat there, silent and seething, counting down the hours until naptime.

---

Day four was worse.

Patrick was home—it was Sunday—which meant both parents were hovering, double-teaming him with their cheerful expectations and firm boundaries.

Breakfast was easier. Ash managed to feed himself with only moderate mess, which earned him enthusiastic praise that made his skin crawl.

"See? You're getting so good at this!" Shannon beamed.

"Maybe tomorrow we can try a regular fork," Patrick added from behind his newspaper.

Ash didn't respond. He'd learned that silence was safer than honesty.

After breakfast, Patrick announced they were going outside. "Fresh air and sunshine. Good for growing boys."

The backyard was fenced, private. Shannon brought out a blanket and spread it on the grass while Patrick carried Ash outside. The October air was crisp, the sky that particular brilliant blue that only came in autumn.

Under different circumstances, Ash would have appreciated it. Now he just felt exposed and ridiculous in his cartoon shirt and shorts, his toddler legs bare, his whole body on display in its wrongness.

Patrick set him down on the blanket. There were more toys—a ball, some plastic shovels and buckets, a few outdoor blocks.

"Why don't you explore a little?" Patrick suggested. "The yard is safe. You can walk around if you want."

Ash stayed on the blanket. He wasn't going to perform for them.

Patrick and Shannon settled into patio chairs with their coffee, watching him with that attentive parental gaze that felt like spotlights. Ash ignored them, picked up one of the shovels, and started digging at the edge of the blanket where it met grass.

"Not on the blanket, buddy," Patrick called. "Dig in the grass or the dirt."

Ash kept digging where he was.

"Noam. Did you hear Daddy?"

"I heard you." Ash didn't look up.

"Then move to the grass, please."

"No."

Patrick exchanged a glance with Shannon. Then he stood, walked over, and crouched beside Ash. "We're asking you nicely to move off the blanket. Don't make this difficult."

"I'm not making anything difficult. I'm sitting here."

"Digging into the blanket's edge, getting dirt all over it, when we asked you to dig somewhere else." Patrick's voice was patient but firm. "That's called defiance, son. And we're not going to tolerate it."

"What are you going to do about it?"

Wrong thing to say. Ash knew it the moment the words left his mouth.

Patrick's expression didn't change. "Inside. Now."

"No."

Patrick simply picked him up. Ash struggled, but it was useless—Patrick carried him inside like he weighed nothing, which, Ash supposed, he basically did.

Shannon followed, closing the sliding door behind them.

"Where are we—" Ash started.

"Timeout first," Patrick said. "Then we're going to talk about this pattern of defiance."

Pattern. Like Ash was a behavioral case study instead of a person.

Patrick set him in the corner—not the living room corner but one in the hallway, which somehow felt worse. More isolated.

"Five minutes," Patrick said. "Don't turn around."

Ash stood there, facing the junction of two walls, his small hands clenched into fists at his sides. He could hear his parents talking in low voices in the other room but couldn't make out the words.

When the timer went off, Patrick came to get him.

"Come to the living room, please."

Ash turned slowly. Patrick's face was calm, expectant. Ash walked to the living room on shaking legs.

Shannon was sitting on the couch. Patrick sat beside her.

"Sit down, Noam," Patrick instructed, gesturing to the ottoman in front of them.

Ash sat. The position made him feel even smaller—sitting lower than them, having to look up to meet their eyes.

"We need to address something," Patrick began. "You've been home for four days now, and we've had multiple incidents of defiance, disrespect, and refusal to follow simple directions. Your mother gave you a consequence yesterday, and today you've continued the same behavior with me. Do you understand why that's a problem?"

Ash said nothing.

"I asked you a question."

"Because you want me to be a good little puppet."

Patrick's jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained level. "Because you need to learn that there are rules and expectations, and when you break them, there are consequences. That's not about control. That's about helping you understand how to function in this family."

"I don't want to function in this family like this."

"That's not an option you have." Patrick leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to receive a spanking—"

"No."

"—and then we're going to start fresh. This is not a negotiation. This is what's happening."

Ash's heart was racing. He looked at Shannon, desperate for any hint of the guilty, uncertain mother from a week ago. But she just looked back at him with the same firm expectation as Patrick.

"Come here," Patrick said.

Ash didn't move.

Patrick simply reached out, took his arm gently but firmly, and guided him to stand. Then Patrick positioned him the same way Shannon had—across his lap, one arm securing him in place.

"You've earned ten spanks this time," Patrick said. "Five for the defiance outside, five for arguing just now. When this is over, we're going to hug, and then we're moving on. Understood?"

"I hate you."

"You can hate me and still follow the rules." Patrick's hand rested on Ash's back for a moment. "Let's count them together."

The first smack was harder than Shannon's had been—not abusive, not violent, but firm enough to make Ash gasp.

"One," Patrick said.

Smack. "Two."

Ash bit down on his lip, refusing to make a sound.

Smack. "Three."

His eyes were watering. Damn it.

Smack. "Four."

Smack. "Five."

Patrick paused. "Halfway there. You're doing fine."

Ash wasn't doing fine. He was being spanked like a toddler by his father and there was nothing fine about it.

Smack. "Six."

A small sound escaped Ash's throat—not quite a cry but close.

Smack. "Seven."

Smack. "Eight."

The tears spilled over. Ash couldn't stop them.

Smack. "Nine."

Smack. "Ten."

"All done." Patrick immediately helped him up, settling him on his lap instead of pushing him away. "You're okay. You're all right."

Ash tried to pull away but Patrick just held him there, firm but not restraining. After a moment, Ash went limp, too exhausted to fight anymore. His bottom burned. His face was wet with tears. And worst of all, part of him—some horrible, traitorous part—found the solid warmth of Patrick's chest almost comforting.

"It's over," Patrick said quietly. "The consequence is done. We're starting fresh now."

Ash didn't say anything. Just concentrated on breathing through the humiliation.

After a minute, Patrick set him down gently. "Go to your mother."

Ash looked up. Shannon had her arms open, her expression soft.

He didn't want to go to her. Didn't want to accept the comfort she was offering after she'd just sat there and let Patrick spank him.

But his stupid toddler body was already moving, already seeking that comfort like it was hardwired into him now.

Shannon pulled him into her lap, wrapping her arms around him. "There you go. All done now. You did so well."

"No, I didn't," Ash mumbled into her shoulder.

"You took your consequence without running away or fighting too much," Shannon corrected. "That's progress. We're proud of you for that."

Proud. They were proud of him for letting them spank him.

Ash closed his eyes and tried to disappear into the dissociation that had been his friend through the worst moments. But it wouldn't come this time. He was too present, too aware of the sting on his bottom and the warmth of his mother's arms and the horrible, twisted reality of his life.

"Let's try again," Patrick said from the couch. "Want to go back outside? You can dig anywhere you want as long as it's not on the blanket."

The reasonable tone made it worse somehow. Like this was all perfectly normal.

"Okay," Ash heard himself say.

And they went back outside, and Ash dug in the dirt, and Patrick praised him for "making good choices," and the day continued like the spanking had never happened.

Like this was just what Sundays looked like now.

---

Day five arrived with a sense of inevitability. Ash was starting to understand the pattern: wake up wet, get changed, try to find some tiny rebellion, face consequences, reset, repeat.

But today he was determined. Today he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of "correcting" him.

He cooperated with the morning routine. Said "yes, Mommy" and "okay, Daddy" at appropriate intervals. Ate his breakfast without making a mess. Played quietly with his toys during morning playtime.

Shannon looked pleasantly surprised. "You're having such a good morning, sweetie!"

Ash just nodded. Inside, he was screaming. But outside, he was the picture of a cooperative toddler.

The cracks started showing around lunch.

Shannon made grilled cheese and cut it into small squares. Ash ate them methodically, focusing on the simple act of chewing and swallowing, trying not to think about how his life had become this.

"All done?" Shannon asked when his plate was empty.

"Yeah."

"Yes, please," Shannon corrected.

Ash's jaw tightened. "Yes, please."

"Good boy!" She lifted him from the high chair. "Diaper check, and then it's naptime."

"I'm not tired."

"You don't have to be tired. It's quiet time. You need to rest your body even if you don't sleep."

She carried him to the nursery, laid him on the changing table. Ash stared at the ceiling while she checked his diaper—wet, of course, because apparently his bladder worked on a toddler schedule now too.

Fresh diaper. Pajamas. Lifted into the crib.

"I'll leave the door open a crack," Shannon said. "You can have your stuffed dog to snuggle with. Sweet dreams, baby."

She left. Ash lay in the crib, clutching the ridiculous stuffed dog, staring at the bars above him.

He wasn't going to sleep. He refused to sleep.

But an hour later, he woke up from a nap he didn't remember falling into, disoriented and foggy.

"There's my sleepyhead," Shannon said from the doorway. She'd opened the door wider—must have been checking on him. "Did you have a good nap?"

Ash sat up. His diaper was wet again. When had that happened?

Shannon changed him again—the third time today—and brought him back to the living room for afternoon activities. The routine was becoming horrifyingly familiar.

"Want to color?" Shannon offered, pulling out a coloring book and crayons.

"No."

"Want to read a story?"

"No."

"Play with blocks?"

"No."

Shannon set down the coloring book. "Noam, you need to pick an activity. What would you like to do?"

"I'd like to not be here." The words came out sharper than Ash intended. "I'd like to have my real body back. I'd like to not be wearing a fucking diaper."

"Language."

"I'd like to not have you monitoring every second of my day, deciding when I eat and sleep and piss—"

"Noam Francis Walsh." Shannon's voice went hard. "That's enough."

"No, it's not enough! It's not even close to enough! You did this to me! You and Dad made this happen! I begged you not to and you—"

"Corner. Now."

"I'm not—"

"NOW."

Something in her tone made Ash move. He went to the corner, shaking with rage and frustration and the horrible helplessness of it all.

"Stay there," Shannon said. "I need to calm down, and so do you."

She left him there for longer this time—maybe ten minutes. When she came back, Patrick was with her. He must have come home early from work.

Oh no.

"Come here, son," Patrick said.

Ash turned slowly. Both parents stood there, united front, firm expectations written across their faces.

"Your mother told me about the outburst," Patrick continued. "And the language. After the weekend we had, I'm disappointed to see we're right back to the same behaviors."

"I was doing what you wanted all morning," Ash protested. "I did everything right."

"Until you decided not to," Shannon said quietly. "Noam, we understand this is hard. We know you're angry. But you still have to follow the rules. You still have to treat us with respect."

"Respect?" Ash's voice cracked. "You want me to respect you after you did this to me?"

"We saved your life," Patrick said, and there was steel in his voice now. "We made an impossible choice because you couldn't make good choices for yourself. And now we're trying to help you learn to make better ones. That requires discipline and consequences when you cross lines."

"So what, you're going to spank me again?"

"Yes," Patrick said simply. "Come here."

Ash's stomach dropped. Not again. Not so soon after yesterday.

"How many times are you going to do this?"

"As many times as it takes for you to understand," Patrick said. He sat down on the couch. "Come here. We're not dragging this out."

Ash didn't move.

Patrick's expression didn't change. "Would you like me to come get you?"

The memory of being carried inside yesterday, completely helpless, made Ash move. He walked forward on wooden legs.

Patrick guided him into position across his lap. This time Ash felt Patrick unsnap the legs of his onesie, felt cool air on his skin as the diaper was loosened but not removed.

"Bare bottom this time," Patrick explained. "You've escalated to profanity and disrespect. The consequence escalates too."

"Please don't—"

"Twelve spanks. For the refusal to pick an activity, the language, and the disrespect to your mother. Count them with me."

The first smack on bare skin was so much worse than over the clothes. Ash yelped before he could stop himself.

"One," Patrick said.

Smack. "Two."

Ash was crying by the fourth, openly sobbing by the eighth.

"Nine," Patrick counted.

"Ten."

"Eleven."

"Twelve. All done."

Patrick secured the diaper again, snapped the onesie back together, and lifted Ash into a sitting position on his lap. Ash was shaking, tears streaming down his face, his bottom absolutely on fire.

"Shh, you're all right," Patrick murmured, holding him. "It's over. You did fine."

"I didn't," Ash choked out between sobs. "I didn't do fine."

"You took your consequence," Patrick corrected. "That's what matters."

Shannon appeared with a tissue, wiping Ash's face gently. "All done now, baby. Fresh start."

Fresh start. Like he could just reset after being spanked bare by his father.

Ash leaned against Patrick's chest, too exhausted to pull away, too defeated to care anymore. His bottom burned. His face was swollen from crying. And tomorrow would come, and the day after, and the day after that.

Five thousand eight hundred and thirty-four days to go.

He wasn't sure he'd survive them.

But as Patrick held him and Shannon stroked his hair, Ash realized something terrible: they were never going to let him not survive.

They'd chosen this. Committed to this.

And they were going to see it through.

No matter what it took.

No matter how many times they had to start fresh.

They were patient. They were determined. They were absolutely certain they were right.

And Ash was small, and weak, and completely, utterly trapped.

Day five ended the way the others had—bath, pajamas, crib, lights out.

But as Ash lay in the dark, his bottom still tender, his eyes still swollen, he realized that his resistance was costing him more than it was costing them.

They could do this forever.

He couldn't.

Something had to change.

He just wasn't sure if it would be them or him.