Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 50
Double Digits

"Ten years old," Mom said at breakfast on March 15th, her voice thick with emotion. "I can't believe you're ten."

"It's just a birthday," Ash said, pouring syrup on his pancakes. But even as he said it, he felt something. Ten. Double digits. A whole decade of life as Noam.

Eight years since the regression. Eight years of living in this body, this life, this reality.

"Just a birthday?" Dad set down his coffee mug. "This is a milestone, buddy. You're not a little kid anymore. You're a full-fledged kid."

"What's the difference?"

"Single digits versus double digits," Dad said. "Trust me, it matters. You'll see."

After breakfast, there were presents at the kitchen table—a family tradition. Mom and Dad sat across from him, watching as he opened each one.

A new baseball glove—a nice one, real leather, with his initials stamped on it. "For when you make the majors," Dad said, grinning.

A set of high-quality swim goggles and a waterproof watch for timing his laps. "Coach Sarah said these would be good for training," Mom explained.

New cleats, a batting helmet, some clothes that actually fit his growing body.

And a card. Inside, Mom had written: To our son Noam on his 10th birthday. We are so proud of the boy you've become. Love, Mom and Dad.

Ash stared at the words. The boy you've become.

Not the boy they'd made him. Not the boy they'd forced him to be.

The boy he'd become.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

The party was that afternoon—a bigger deal than usual since it was double digits. Mom had reserved the community center's game room, invited his whole baseball team, his swim team friends, and some kids from school.

Twenty kids. Twenty nine and ten-year-olds running around playing air hockey and ping pong and video games.

"This is awesome!" Marcus said, dominating at air hockey. "Way better than my birthday party. We just went to the movies."

"Your movie party was fun," Ash protested.

"Yeah, but this? This is a real party."

Tyler challenged Ash to ping pong. They played three games, Tyler winning 2-1, both of them laughing and trash-talking in that easy way of boys who'd been teammates for years.

"Ten years old," Tyler said as they gave up the table to other kids. "You're catching up to me."

"You're still older."

"Yeah, but only by a year now. Soon we'll both be in middle school." Tyler made a face. "That's weird to think about."

Middle school. In two years for Ash, one year for Tyler. The time was passing faster now. Not the endless crawl of those first few years, but actual progression.

Eight years down. Just over eight more until he was eighteen and technically an adult again.

But today wasn't about counting down. Today was about turning ten.

The family started arriving around 3:00. Claire with Sophie, who was now almost eight and growing like a weed. Cathy with her new boyfriend Jake. Declan, who'd driven up from his apartment in the city. Eden, who'd been helping Mom set up all morning.

"Happy birthday, little bro!" Eden hugged him. "Double digits! That's huge!"

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because it's true. Ten is when you stop being a little kid and start being a real kid." Eden grinned. "Soon you'll be too cool to hang out with your older sister."

"I'm already too cool for that," Ash said, but he was smiling.

Claire brought over Sophie, who was holding a wrapped present. "This is from both of us," Claire said.

Inside was a photo album—pictures from the past eight years. Ash at two, tiny and confused. At three, starting to smile in photos. At five, on his first baseball team. At seven, with a swim medal. At eight, all-star uniform. At nine, in the walking boot, surrounded by his team.

And on the last page, a photo from last week—Ash at baseball practice, mid-swing, his face focused and determined.

"I thought you might like to see how far you've come," Claire said softly.

Ash flipped through the album again. Watched himself grow. Watched Noam emerge from that confused, angry two-year-old into... this. A ten-year-old athlete with friends and interests and a life.

"Thanks," he managed. "This is really cool."

The cake came out at 4:00—chocolate with vanilla frosting, "Happy 10th Birthday Noam!" written in blue icing. Ten candles arranged in two rows of five.

Everyone sang. Ash closed his eyes, made a wish (that the next eight years would go faster than the last eight), and blew out all ten candles in one breath.

"Speech! Speech!" Tyler started chanting, and soon all the kids joined in.

"I don't have a speech," Ash protested.

"Just say something!" Marcus called out.

Ash looked around the room. At his teammates and friends, at his family, at the decorations and the presents and the half-eaten cake.

"Uh, thanks for coming to my party. And thanks for the presents. This is really cool." He paused. "And thanks for being my friends. That's... yeah. That's it."

Everyone cheered and clapped anyway.

After cake, the kids went back to games while the adults congregated near the snack table. Ash found himself near the air hockey table, watching Marcus and Tyler play, when he overheard Mom talking to Claire.

"Ten years old," Mom was saying. "I keep thinking about... before. About how we didn't know if this would work. If he'd ever adjust."

"He's done more than adjust," Claire said. "Look at him. He's thriving."

"I know. But I still worry. Is he happy? Really happy? Or is he just... going through the motions because he doesn't have a choice?"

Ash stayed very still, pretending to watch the game.

"I think he's both," Claire said carefully. "I think some days he's genuinely happy. And some days he remembers what was taken from him. Both things can be true."

"I just want him to have a good life. A real childhood. Not just... not just surviving until he's eighteen again."

"Mom." Claire's voice was gentle. "He has friends. He has activities he loves. He gets excited about baseball games and swim meets. That's not just surviving. That's living."

Mom was quiet for a moment. "You're right. I just... I want so much for him. Want him to have everything we couldn't give him before."

"You're giving him a second chance. That's more than most people get."

Ash moved away before they could notice him listening. Found Sophie near the video games.

"Want to play?" she asked, holding up a controller.

"Sure."

They played some racing game, Sophie laughing every time she crashed, Ash letting her win occasionally. Normal cousin stuff. Normal family party stuff.

At 6:00, people started leaving. Kids collected their goodie bags (filled with candy and small toys—Mom had gone all out). Parents thanked Mom and Dad for hosting. The room slowly emptied.

By 6:30, it was just family left. They helped clean up—stacking chairs, collecting trash, packing up leftover cake.

"Good party?" Dad asked as they carried boxes to the car.

"Really good," Ash said. And meant it.

At home that evening, Ash's room was full of new things. The glove, the goggles, the watch, gifts from friends, the photo album from Claire.

He sat on his bed, looking at the album again. Eight years captured in photos. Two-year-old Noam to ten-year-old Noam. A whole childhood documented.

"My name is Ash," he whispered. "I'm thirty-two years old. I'm ten years old. Today I had a birthday party with twenty friends and my family and I didn't hate it."

That was the truth that sat in his chest. He hadn't hated it. Had actually enjoyed it. Had felt, for most of the day, like a normal ten-year-old having a birthday party.

Not Ash pretending to be Noam. Not a thirty-two-year-old trapped in a child's body. Just... a kid turning ten.

Four thousand, nine hundred and nine days to go.

But today, those days had felt less like a prison sentence and more like... just time. Time that would pass. Time he'd fill with baseball and swimming and hanging out with Marcus and Tyler. Time where he'd keep growing and changing and living.

Eight years ago, he'd been two years old and furious. Couldn't imagine surviving even one year like this.

Now he was ten. Had survived eight years. Had more than survived—had built a life. Had friends who liked him. Had sports he was good at. Had a family that loved him, even if the situation was complicated.

In eight more years, he'd be eighteen. Technically an adult again. Though he'd actually be forty years old mentally.

The math was still incomprehensible. But less painful than it used to be.

He pulled out the new glove, worked the leather with his hand, inhaling that new-glove smell. Dad was right—this was a nice glove. The kind serious players used.

Because that's what he was now. A serious player. An athlete. A ten-year-old who'd made all-stars and won swim medals and had a reputation on his teams as hardworking and skilled.

Not despite having an adult consciousness. Not because of it. Just because he'd put in the work. Because his body—this body, finally the right body—was capable and strong and his.

There was a knock on his door. "Come in."

Eden poked her head in. "Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure."

She sat on his desk chair, looking at him seriously. "So. Ten years old. How does it feel?"

Ash thought about it. "Weird. Good weird, but weird."

"You know what I realized today? When you're eighteen again, I'll be thirty-four. I'll probably have kids of my own by then. You'll technically be older than me, but I'll be your older sister who's actually older." Eden laughed. "This family is so weird."

"Yeah."

"But also... you seem good. Like, actually good. Not pretending-good." Eden leaned forward. "Are you? Actually good?"

"Most days," Ash said honestly. "Not every day. But most days."

"That's probably the best any of us can hope for." Eden smiled. "For what it's worth, I think you're doing amazing. Eight years of this and you're not just surviving—you're actually living. That takes guts."

"I didn't have much choice."

"You had a choice in how you handled it. You could have stayed angry forever. Could have just... checked out mentally. But you didn't. You built a life." Eden gestured around his room—at the sports equipment, the trophies, the photo album. "This is a real life, Ash. Noam. Whoever you are. It's real and it's yours."

After she left, Ash sat with those words. It's real and it's yours.

He looked at the new baseball glove with his initials on it. N.F.W. Noam Francis Walsh.

Not Ash anymore. At least not on the outside. Not in the world's eyes. Not even really in his own eyes most of the time.

He was Noam. Ten years old. A fifth-grader who'd start middle school in two years. An athlete who loved baseball and swimming. A friend and teammate and son and brother and nephew.

All of that was real. All of that was his.

Even if, deep down in a place he rarely examined anymore, there was still Ash. Thirty-two years old. Remembering a different life. Carrying a different history.

Both things. Always both things.

But increasingly, the Noam parts felt more real than the Ash parts.

And that was terrifying and sad and somehow also okay.

He fell asleep that night with his new glove next to his pillow, the leather smell comforting, his body tired from a day of playing and celebrating.

Ten years old.

Double digits.

A milestone he'd reached not by counting down the days but by living them.

One birthday party, one baseball game, one swim practice at a time.

Until somehow, impossibly, eight years had passed.

And somehow, impossibly, he was okay.

Not happy every day. Not grateful for what had been done to him. Not at peace with his situation.

But okay. Living. Real.

And for now, for tonight, for his tenth birthday, that was enough.