Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 19
Tender Care

Sunday morning came too bright, too early. Ash woke to Shannon opening the curtains, letting autumn sunlight stream into the nursery.

"Good morning, sweet boy," she said softly. Not her usual cheerful tone—something gentler, warmer. "How did you sleep?"

Ash didn't answer. Everything hurt. His bottom was still tender from yesterday's four spankings. His eyes were swollen. His throat was raw from crying.

But more than the physical pain was the hollow feeling in his chest. The defeated knowledge that he had no power here. That rebellion was impossible.

Shannon approached the crib, lowered the rail. "Let's get you changed, hmm? Nice and gentle this morning."

The diaper change was careful—Shannon's hands soft, her movements slow. She applied extra cream to his bottom, murmuring about the redness. Got him dressed in the softest clothes he had—fleece pants and a long-sleeved shirt that felt like being wrapped in a cloud.

"There we go," she said, lifting him out. But instead of setting him down, she carried him to the rocking chair and sat with him in her lap. "Just need some cuddles this morning, I think."

Ash sat stiffly in her arms, not resisting but not relaxing either.

Shannon began to rock, gentle movements, one hand stroking his back. "Yesterday was hard, wasn't it? So much crying and hurting. My poor baby."

Don't call me that, Ash wanted to say. But he was too tired. Too defeated.

"But you did so well at the end," Shannon continued. "You made the right choice. You apologized. I'm very proud of you for that."

Proud. She was proud he'd broken down after four spankings and apologized on speakerphone.

"Sometimes we have to learn lessons the hard way," Shannon said softly. "But now that lesson is done. Now we can move forward. All that matters is being a good boy today."

She rocked him for several more minutes, humming something soft and wordless. Despite himself, Ash felt his body beginning to relax. The rocking motion was soothing. The warmth of being held was... not nice, exactly. But not terrible.

He was so tired of fighting.

"Let's go have some breakfast," Shannon finally said. "And then we'll have a nice, quiet day together. Just you and me."

Breakfast was oatmeal again, but Shannon fed it to him this time. Didn't make him use his own spoon. Just brought each bite to his lips with patient gentleness.

"Good boy. One more bite. That's it."

When he was done, she wiped his face with a warm cloth and lifted him from the high chair. "How about we skip your table this morning? I think you need some extra mommy time."

She carried him to the couch, settled him in her lap again, and pulled out a bottle.

Ash stiffened. "What's that?"

"Just some warm milk, sweetie. I think it'll help settle your tummy. You barely ate yesterday."

"I don't want a bottle."

"I know, honey. But Mommy thinks it'll help. Just try it for me?"

She brought the nipple to his lips. Ash turned his head away.

"Noam." Shannon's voice was still gentle but had an edge of firmness. "You need to drink something. You can have it from a bottle, or I can get you a sippy cup, but you're going to drink. Which would you prefer?"

The choice wasn't really a choice. But after yesterday—after learning exactly how far they'd push him—Ash knew he didn't have the energy for another battle.

He let her guide the nipple into his mouth.

The milk was warm and sweet. He sucked reflexively, hating how natural the motion felt, how his toddler body knew exactly what to do.

"There we go," Shannon praised, stroking his hair. "Good boy. Just relax."

The bottle was gone before Ash fully processed drinking it. His stomach felt warm and full. His eyes were getting heavy.

"Naptime already?" Shannon asked with a soft laugh. "You really are tired, aren't you?"

"Don't wanna nap."

"Shh, I know. But your body needs rest after yesterday." She stood, carrying him upstairs. "Just a little sleep, and then we'll do something special this afternoon."

She laid him in the crib, tucked the blanket around him. "Sweet dreams, baby."

Ash wanted to stay awake. Wanted to fight the exhaustion. But his body betrayed him, pulling him under into sleep.

He woke to the sound of Shannon moving around the nursery. Blinked at her groggily.

"There's my boy! Good nap?" She lowered the crib rail, changed his wet diaper—he'd peed in his sleep, not even aware of it happening anymore. "I have something to show you after lunch."

Lunch was soft foods—cut-up grilled cheese and soup that Shannon mostly fed him again. Then she carried him back upstairs to the nursery.

On the changing table was a fabric contraption he didn't recognize at first. Straps and buckles and soft padding.

"It's a baby carrier," Shannon explained, seeing his confusion. "I thought we could try it this afternoon. You can be close to Mommy while I do things around the house. I think you need some extra closeness today."

"I don't—"

"Arms up, sweetie."

Shannon was already putting it on him before he could protest. Straps around his legs, support for his bottom, the whole thing designed to hold him against her chest. She adjusted buckles and straps until he was secured snugly against her, his head at her shoulder level, his body pressed against hers.

"There! How does that feel?"

Trapped. It felt trapped. Ash couldn't move his arms much—they were pinned between his body and Shannon's. His legs dangled, supported by the carrier. His whole body was pressed against his mother like an infant.

"I don't like it."

"Give it a chance, honey. I think you'll find it comforting." Shannon rubbed his back through the carrier. "Let's go do some things."

She carried him—literally carried him against her chest—down to the kitchen. Started putting away dishes from the dishwasher. Ash's body moved with hers, bouncing slightly with each step, pressed firmly against her warmth.

It was infantilizing. Degrading. Being worn like a baby, completely dependent, unable to even see properly with his face at her shoulder level.

But it was also... warm. Secure. The pressure of being held firmly was grounding in a way he didn't want to admit.

"See? Not so bad," Shannon said, pausing to kiss the top of his head. "Mommy's got you. You're safe."

Safe. Like that was what he needed. Like being strapped to her chest like an infant was protection instead of violation.

Shannon moved through the house doing chores. Folding laundry. Straightening the living room. Watering plants. All with Ash secured against her, his body moving with hers, completely passive.

After maybe an hour, she settled on the couch. "I think someone needs another bottle. You're due for afternoon snack anyway."

She produced another bottle—more warm milk—and brought it to his lips. Ash was too exhausted to resist. Let her feed him while he was still strapped to her chest, unable to hold the bottle himself, unable to do anything but drink.

"Such a good boy," Shannon murmured. "See how much easier things are when you just relax and let Mommy take care of you?"

Easier. Maybe. But at what cost?

Patrick came home around 4:00. Found them on the couch—Shannon reading a book, Ash still strapped to her chest, drowsy from the bottle and the warmth and the constant gentle motion.

"How's he doing?" Patrick asked quietly.

"Better. I think he just needed some extra comfort today. Poor thing was so wound up."

They were talking about him like he wasn't there. Like he couldn't hear them discussing his emotional state.

"Good thinking with the carrier. Attachment is important, especially after a hard lesson."

Attachment. They were deliberately creating attachment. Using his vulnerable emotional state after breaking him yesterday to build dependency.

Ash's chest tightened. He wanted to protest, to point out what they were doing, to resist.

But he was so tired. And being held was easier than fighting. And his body, traitorous thing that it was, was already relaxing into Shannon's arms, already accepting the comfort even as his mind screamed against it.

"Dinner soon," Patrick said. "Need help getting him out of that?"

"No, I'll keep him in it for dinner prep. I think he likes being close."

Patrick kissed them both—first Shannon, then the top of Ash's head—and went to change out of his work clothes.

Shannon stood, carrying Ash into the kitchen to start dinner. His body swayed with her movements, pressed against her warmth, completely passive.

This was the next phase, he realized dimly. Yesterday they'd broken his defiance. Today they were reshaping the pieces into something more manageable.

A child who needed comfort. Who accepted bottles and carriers and being held. Who was "emotionally sensitive" and therefore required extra care, extra closeness, extra dependency.

They were three chess moves ahead. Had known exactly how yesterday would leave him. Had planned for this vulnerability.

And he was too tired to fight it.

Dinner was eaten at the table—Shannon finally unbuckling him from the carrier—but she fed him most of it. His hands felt weak and clumsy when he tried to hold the spoon himself.

"That's okay, baby. Mommy's got it. You're just tired."

Bath time was gentle, Shannon washing him with careful hands and soft words. Pajamas were the warmest, softest ones. She carried him to the nursery, but instead of putting him in the crib immediately, she settled in the rocking chair with him and another bottle.

"One more before bed," she said. "Help you sleep peacefully."

Ash drank it. What else could he do?

Shannon rocked him while he drank, humming softly. When the bottle was empty, she held him against her shoulder and patted his back.

"Such a good boy today. Mommy's so proud of you."

Proud of him for what? For being broken yesterday? For accepting bottles and carriers and complete dependence today?

For being reshaped into the child they wanted instead of the person he was?

"Let's get you to bed," Shannon whispered, standing and carrying him to the crib. She laid him down, tucked him in, wound up the musical mobile.

"Sweet dreams, sweet boy. Tomorrow will be even easier."

Easier. Because each day he was being worn down, rebuilt, shaped into compliance.

The door closed. The mobile played its tinny lullaby. Ash lay in the dark, thinking about bottles and carriers and being held.

About how his body had relaxed into Shannon's arms despite his mind's protests.

About how the warmth and security had felt almost... nice. In a horrible, twisted way.

They were conditioning him. Using his emotional vulnerability after yesterday's breaking to create new dependencies. Making him associate comfort with complete submission and passivity.

And it was working.

He'd drunk two bottles without significant protest. Had let himself be worn in a carrier for hours. Had accepted being fed and held and cared for like an infant.

Had felt his body accepting it even as his mind screamed.

"My name is Ash," he whispered into the dark. "I'm twenty-four years old."

But he'd spent the day strapped to his mother's chest. Had drunk from bottles. Had let her rock him to sleep.

Who was Ash anymore?

Who would he be after five thousand more days of this careful, patient reshaping?

The mobile wound down, its music fading to silence.

Ash closed his eyes.

And tried not to think about how much easier today had been than yesterday.

How much easier tomorrow would probably be than today.

How each day of not fighting was a day of becoming the child they wanted him to be.

They'd broken his defiance yesterday.

Today they'd started building something new in its place.

Something softer. More dependent. More manageable.

Something that looked less like Ash and more like Noam.

And Ash was too tired to stop it.

Five thousand seven hundred and eighty-six days to go.

But really—how much of Ash would be left after even five hundred?

After a thousand?

After five thousand?

He didn't know.

And that terrified him more than anything else.