Walsh Family Universe V2

Day six began with Ash making a decision.

He couldn't win. That much was clear. Every act of defiance just resulted in timeouts, spankings, and the horrible "fresh start" cycle that left him exhausted and sore and no closer to freedom. His parents weren't going to break. They weren't going to suddenly realize this was wrong and change their minds.

So he would have to adapt.

Not surrender—he'd never surrender, never accept this as right or okay. But adapt. Survive. Pick his battles. Save his energy for... for what, he wasn't sure yet. But throwing tantrums and earning daily spankings wasn't a strategy. It was just self-destruction in a different form.

When Shannon came in that morning with her cheerful "Good morning, sweetie!" Ash responded.

"Morning, Mommy."

The word tasted like ash in his mouth, but he said it.

Shannon's eyebrows rose slightly. "Well, someone's in a better mood today. Let's get you changed, hmm?"

Ash let himself be lifted to the changing table without complaint. Lay still during the diaper change. Raised his arms when told to so Shannon could pull on his shirt—another cartoon character, this time a smiling giraffe.

"Such a good listener this morning," Shannon praised. "I'm so proud of you."

Ash focused on the ceiling and said nothing. Cooperation didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

Breakfast was scrambled eggs and toast cut into strips. Shannon set him in the high chair and offered him the small fork. "Want to try feeding yourself again?"

"Yes, please."

Shannon smiled. "Okay, but I'm going to help with the eggs. They're tricky."

They were tricky. Ash managed to get about half the toast into his mouth independently, but the eggs required Shannon's assistance—she'd load the fork and hand it to him, letting him complete the motion himself. It was degrading and helpful in equal measure, which somehow made it worse.

"You're doing wonderful," Shannon encouraged. "In a few weeks, you'll be feeding yourself everything."

In a few weeks. Like that was a reasonable timeline for a twenty-four-year-old to relearn basic functions.

After breakfast, Shannon cleaned his face and hands and set him down in the living room. "Playtime while Mommy does some work. I'll be at the kitchen table if you need me."

Ash looked at the toys scattered on the foam mat. The blocks. The trucks. The board books with their simple pictures and single words per page.

He picked up a truck. Red, plastic, missing a wheel. Turned it over in his hands.

Just play with it, he told himself. It's easier if you play with it.

But his hands wouldn't move. Couldn't make himself push the truck across the mat and make engine noises like Shannon clearly expected.

Instead, he set it down carefully and reached for the blocks. Stacking blocks was... marginally less humiliating. At least it was construction of a sort. Not creative, not meaningful, but mechanical. His hands could go through the motions without his brain having to fully engage.

He built a tower. Knocked it down. Built it again.

Shannon glanced over from her laptop periodically, smiled when she saw him "playing," and returned to her work.

The morning passed. No timeouts. No consequences. Just the grinding, mundane horror of toddler activities performed by an adult consciousness trapped in a child's body.

Around 10:30, Shannon closed her laptop. "Snack time, then we're going to read some books together."

Goldfish crackers and a sippy cup of juice. Ash ate mechanically. The juice tasted artificial, too sweet, but he drank it without complaint.

Shannon settled on the couch and patted the cushion beside her. "Come sit with Mommy."

Ash climbed up—an awkward scramble that would have been effortless in his old body—and sat next to her. Shannon pulled him closer, settling him against her side, and picked up a board book from the coffee table.

"The Very Hungry Caterpillar," she announced. "This was one of your sisters' favorites."

Ash stared at the cover. A cartoon caterpillar, bright colors, Eric Carle's distinctive collage art style. He'd probably read this book himself as a child, twenty years ago.

Now he was reading it again.

Shannon opened to the first page. "In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf..."

Her voice was soft, warm, performatively maternal. She pointed to the pictures as she read, like Ash wouldn't understand otherwise. Like he was actually two.

Ash let the words wash over him. Tried to dissociate, but Shannon kept pulling him back.

"What does the caterpillar eat on Monday?" she asked, pointing to the illustration.

"Apple," Ash said flatly.

"That's right! One apple. Good job." She turned the page. "And on Tuesday?"

This was going to be the whole book. She was going to quiz him on every page.

"Two pears," Ash said before she could ask.

"Very good! You're so smart."

They made it through the entire book, Shannon praising every correct answer, gently correcting when Ash said "plums" instead of "strawberries" for Thursday. When she closed the book, she kissed the top of his head.

"Such a good boy. Want to read another one?"

"Okay."

They read three more books. Each one simple, designed for toddlers, each one requiring Ash to engage and answer questions and pretend this was a normal interaction between a mother and her two-year-old son.

By the time Shannon declared it was time for a diaper check and lunch, Ash was exhausted. Not physically—his toddler body wasn't tired. But mentally. The constant performance of cooperation was draining in ways that outright resistance hadn't been.

Lunch was mac and cheese. Ash ate it with Shannon's help, managed not to make too much of a mess, and earned more praise.

"You've had such a good morning," Shannon said as she wiped his face. "I'm so proud of how you're behaving today."

Ash said nothing. Just let himself be lifted from the high chair and carried to the nursery for a diaper change and naptime.

"I'm not tired," he said as Shannon laid him in the crib.

"I know, honey. But it's quiet time. Your body needs rest even if you don't feel sleepy."

She handed him the stuffed dog, pulled a thin blanket over him, and left the door cracked open.

Ash lay there, staring at the mobile slowly rotating above him. Stars and moons and clouds. Gentle music playing from somewhere—a baby mobile that actually played music.

He wasn't going to sleep.

He absolutely wasn't going to sleep.

He woke up two hours later, disoriented and foggy. His diaper was wet. Again.

Shannon must have checked on him, because she appeared almost immediately after he woke. "There's my sleepyhead. Did you have good dreams?"

Ash sat up, rubbing his eyes. He didn't remember dreaming. Didn't remember falling asleep.

"Let's get you changed and you can have some afternoon playtime."

Another diaper change. Fresh clothes—Shannon put him in soft pants and a sweatshirt since it was getting cooler. Then back to the living room.

Patrick arrived home around 4:00. Earlier than usual—must be Friday, Ash realized. He'd lost track of days.

"How's my boy?" Patrick asked, setting his briefcase down and loosening his tie.

"He's had a wonderful day," Shannon reported from the kitchen where she was starting dinner prep. "Very cooperative. No timeouts at all."

Patrick's eyebrows rose. He looked at Ash, who was sitting on the play mat with blocks scattered around him. "Is that right? Good job, son."

Ash didn't respond. Just went back to stacking blocks.

Patrick changed out of his work clothes and returned in jeans and a casual shirt. He sat on the floor near Ash—not hovering, but present.

"What are you building?" Patrick asked.

"Nothing."

"Looks like a tower to me."

"It's just blocks."

Patrick picked up a block and held it out. "Want to make it taller? I can help."

Ash looked at the block. At his father. At the casual, friendly offer that pretended this was normal.

"Okay."

They built the tower together. Patrick let Ash place most of the blocks, only stabilizing when it started to wobble. When it was taller than Ash could reach from sitting, Patrick lifted him up so he could place the final block on top.

"There we go! That's the tallest tower I've ever seen. Great work, buddy."

Ash stared at the tower. Something twisted in his chest—not pride, because there was nothing to be proud of in stacking children's blocks. But something. Recognition that his hands had created something, even something meaningless.

He knocked the tower over.

Blocks scattered across the mat. Patrick didn't react, just started gathering them back into a pile.

"Want to build another one?"

"No."

"Okay. That's fine." Patrick stood, brushing off his jeans. "I'm going to help Mom with dinner. You keep playing."

The evening continued. Dinner in the high chair—spaghetti, which Shannon cut into small pieces and helped him eat. Bath time after dinner, which Ash endured in silent humiliation while Shannon washed him and shampooed his hair and narrated every step like he didn't know what soap was for.

Pajamas. Final diaper change. Story time—Patrick read this time, something about a bear and a box.

Then crib. Lights out. Door cracked.

"Goodnight, Noam," Patrick said from the doorway. "We're very proud of you today. Tomorrow's Saturday—we'll have fun family time."

The door closed most of the way. Footsteps receded.

Ash lay in the dark, staring at nothing.

He'd made it through a whole day without consequences. Without timeouts or spankings or lectures. He'd cooperated, performed, played along.

And it felt like a different kind of defeat.

Because somewhere during those hours of strategic compliance, he'd caught himself—really caught himself—stacking those blocks with his father and feeling something close to satisfaction when the tower got tall.

Just for a second. Just for one horrible second, he'd forgotten to be Ash and just... existed as Noam.

The realization made his stomach turn.

This was how it would happen, he understood now. Not through force. Not through punishment. Through the grinding dailiness of it. Through routines that became familiar. Through small moments where his toddler body's instincts overrode his adult consciousness.

Through cooperation that became habit that became... what? Acceptance?

Never, Ash thought fiercely. Never acceptance.

But adaptation, yes. Survival, yes.

He'd cooperate because fighting was unsustainable. He'd play along because the alternative was endless spankings that solved nothing.

But in his head, he'd stay Ash. In the dark, alone in the crib, he'd remember.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to the empty room. "I'm twenty-four years old. I'm an artist. I had friends. I had a life. I was trying to stay clean. I was trying."

The shield was weaker now. The words felt more like desperate prayer than statement of fact.

But he said them anyway.

Had to say them.

Because if he stopped saying them, he wasn't sure who he'd be.

Day seven was Saturday. Both parents home. No work schedule to break up the day.

Shannon announced over breakfast that they were going to have a "fun family day."

"We thought we'd set up the kiddie pool in the backyard," she said brightly. "The weather's supposed to be nice. You can splash around and play."

Ash looked up from his oatmeal. A kiddie pool. They wanted him to play in a kiddie pool.

"I don't want to," he said carefully.

"Well, we're going to try it anyway," Shannon said. "It'll be good for you to get some active play outside."

After breakfast, Patrick dragged the inflatable pool out of the garage—when had they bought that?—and spent twenty minutes filling it with the hose. Shannon brought out towels and some bath toys.

The water was cold. Shannon had put Ash in a swim diaper and swim trunks with fish on them. Standing at the edge of the shallow pool, Ash felt ridiculous.

"Go ahead, get in," Patrick encouraged.

Ash stepped into the water. It came up to his calves—barely six inches deep. This was what counted as swimming now.

He stood there, not moving, while his parents watched expectantly.

"Why don't you splash around?" Shannon suggested. "Or play with the toys?"

There was a rubber duck floating in the water. A small boat. A cup for pouring.

Ash picked up the cup. Filled it with water. Poured it out.

"There you go! That's fun, right?"

It wasn't fun. It was humiliating. But Ash filled the cup again. Poured it out again.

The thing was, the water was cold, and the sun was warm, and some buried instinct in his toddler body found the sensation pleasant. Found the simple action of filling and pouring almost meditative.

Ash filled the cup. Poured it over the rubber duck. Watched the water stream off the yellow plastic.

Did it again.

And again.

"He's playing," Shannon said quietly to Patrick. Pride in her voice.

Ash's hands stilled on the cup. No. He wasn't playing. He was just... going through motions. Keeping his hands busy.

Except he was playing. Had been playing. For several minutes, actually playing, without consciously deciding to.

He dropped the cup. It bobbed in the water.

"What's wrong?" Patrick asked.

"Nothing."

"You were doing great. Keep going."

"I don't want to."

Patrick exchanged a glance with Shannon. Here it came—the consequence for non-compliance.

But Patrick just shrugged. "Okay. You can get out if you want. Come dry off."

Ash climbed out of the pool. Patrick wrapped a towel around him—the towel was huge on his small body, practically a blanket. Led him to a chair on the patio.

"You did good," Patrick said, drying Ash's hair with a corner of the towel. "Playing is hard when you're adjusting. But you tried. That's what matters."

Ash pulled the towel tighter. "I wasn't playing."

"Looked like playing to me."

"I was just... moving water around."

"That's what playing is sometimes." Patrick finished drying him off and sat back. "You know what I think? I think you're starting to settle in. You had a whole day yesterday without any consequences. Today you tried something new even though you didn't want to. That's real progress, Noam."

"My name is Ash."

Patrick's expression didn't change. "Your name is Noam. And the sooner you accept that, the easier this gets."

"I'll never accept it."

"You don't have to accept it in your heart," Patrick said quietly. "But you have to live it. And you're starting to figure out how to do that."

He stood, taking the wet towel with him. "Let's get you changed into dry clothes. Then maybe we can read some books or play with your blocks inside."

Ash followed Patrick inside, his wet feet leaving prints on the patio stones. His father was right, he realized with creeping horror. He was starting to figure out how to live this.

How to cooperate without breaking completely. How to perform the role while maintaining some core sense of self.

But for how long could he maintain that separation? How long before the performance became reality?

"My name is Ash," he whispered as Patrick carried him upstairs to the nursery. "I'm twenty-four. I'm an artist. I was trying."

"What was that?" Patrick asked.

"Nothing."

Patrick set him down on the changing table and started removing the wet swim diaper. "You know, you can talk to us about how you're feeling. We're not your enemies, son. We're trying to help you."

Ash stared at the ceiling and said nothing.

Because what was there to say? That they'd destroyed his life while claiming to save it? That every moment of this existence was violation disguised as care? That he was starting to adapt and it terrified him more than anything else?

They wouldn't understand. Or worse, they'd understand and still believe they were right.

Patrick finished changing him, dressed him in soft pants and another cartoon shirt, and carried him back downstairs.

"Lunchtime soon," Patrick announced. "Shannon, need any help?"

"I've got it. Why don't you two play for a bit?"

Play. That word again.

Patrick settled on the living room floor with Ash and pulled out a puzzle—wooden pieces that fit into shaped slots. Circle, square, triangle, star.

"Let's see if you can match them up," Patrick suggested, dumping the pieces out.

Ash looked at the puzzle. It was designed for very young toddlers. Literal shape-matching. The kind of thing that was supposed to teach spatial reasoning to developing brains.

He picked up the circle. Put it in the circle hole.

"Great job! How about the square?"

Ash picked up the square. Looked at it. Looked at his father, who was watching with patient expectation.

Put the square in the square hole.

"Excellent! You're so good at this."

They completed the entire puzzle. Patrick praised every correct placement. When it was done, Patrick dumped it out again.

"One more time?"

"No."

"That's okay." Patrick started putting the pieces back. "You did really well. Mom's going to be so proud when I tell her."

Lunch was soup and crackers. Ash ate without making a mess, earned more praise, and was starting to hate the word "proud."

After lunch came naptime—Ash fought it less today, just let Shannon tuck him in and close his eyes and surrender to the exhaustion.

The afternoon passed in more of the same. Reading time. Playtime. Diaper changes. Snack. More play.

Dinner. Bath. Bedtime.

The second weekend day of his new life.

Only about eight hundred and thirty-four more weekends to go.

That night, lying in the crib, Ash realized something that made his chest tight: he couldn't clearly remember what his old hands had looked like. His real hands. The ones with long fingers and calluses from holding charcoal and cigarettes.

He held up his toddler hands in the dim light from the hallway. Pudgy. Small. The hands that had stacked blocks and completed puzzles and filled cups with water.

These were his hands now.

For the next sixteen years, these would be his hands.

"My name is Ash," he whispered. But his voice was small and high, a toddler's voice, and the words felt like lies even though they were true.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember who he was.

Tried to hold on.

But it was getting harder.