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bebelogan24 · 10 days ago

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Two Dads The morning Sun streamed through the windows of our kitchen, a slight breeze providing a cooling comfort.

“I probably want to get the lawnmower out before it gets too hot.” I heard a familiar rumble say before I felt lips kiss my cheek.

Nathan, my husband, my partner of nearly thirty years, stirred his coffee, his tall frame silhouetted against the morning light. Even after all this time, a lifetime of shared mornings and evenings, the sight of him could still make my chest ache with a profound contentment. He was still the most handsome man I’ve ever known. The beautiful kind doctor I’d fallen for, though now with a few more distinguished lines around his gentle eyes, his blonde hair greying out.

“Jake up yet?” I asked, my own coffee cupped between my hands. It was a Monday, and Mondays had taken on a new rhythm since Jake had joined us.

Nathan shook his head, a soft smile on his lips. “Not yet. He had a rough night, I think.”

He came to live with us just three months ago, our early retirement plans of leisurely travel and endless golf suddenly superseded by a purpose far grander: becoming fathers.

Nathan, never one to sit still, found himself back in the sterile, fluorescence of an ER late one night. A favour to a perpetually understaffed hospital, he told himself, but a part of him, the part that had thrived on the unpredictable rhythm of saving lives, missed the pulse of it.

The double doors burst open, and paramedics wheeled in a stretcher, their voices tight with urgency. "Male, late teens, blunt force trauma, severe assault," one barked, outlining the grim details. Nathan moved quickly, the years falling away from him as he reassumed the mantle of attending physician. The young man on the gurney was Jake, as we’d later learn. His face was a horrifying canvas of purple and black, swollen beyond recognition. Blood, both fresh and congealed, matted his dark hair and clung to his ripped clothes. As they worked to stabilize him, to clear his airway and assess the damage, Nathan’s gaze lingered. Jake’s eyes, when they fluttered open for a brief, terrifying moment, held an unspeakable terror, a flinching, trapped animal look that twisted something in Nathan’s gut. The paramedics had mentioned a 'domestic incident,' a drunken monster taking all his fury out on the one thing you’re supposed to love and protect.

It was during the initial assessment, as they prepped him for scans, that a nurse quietly pulled Nathan aside. "Doctor, he's… he's incontinent. Likely from the trauma. We've had to put him in an adult diaper." Nathan nodded, a knot forming in his stomach. The humiliation, piled on top of the physical pain and terror. This poor boy, reduced to such utter vulnerability, not just physically broken, but stripped of his dignity. It wasn't just a matter of mending bones; his spirit required repair, too.

He went to Jake’s room later, after the initial storm had passed. The boy was cleaned, hooked up to an IV, his breathing more even. He was still awake, staring at the ceiling. Nathan pulled up a chair.

“Jake,” he said softly, “I’m Dr. York. You’re safe here.”

Over the next two days, Jake remained in the hospital. Nathan found himself drawn to Room 3B, checking on Jake far more often than was strictly necessary. He’d sit by the bed, talking in a low, gentle voice, explaining procedures, asking quiet questions. Jake rarely spoke, offering only monosyllabic answers, his eyes darting nervously around the room, as if expecting another blow. He flinched at sudden movements, cowered when a nurse walked in too quickly. Nathan learned Jake was 21, but barely look eighteen, had nowhere to go. No mother, no siblings that he would name, just a father who had, by all accounts, brutalized him. The police had been involved, but Jake was too scared to press charges, too broken to imagine a future away from the only place he’d ever known, however violent. The image of the adult diaper, a stark symbol of Jake's regression and helplessness, gnawed at Nathan. It underscored the profound trauma this young man had endured, pushing him back to an infantile state of dependency.

On the third morning, after Jake had been medically cleared for discharge and Nathan’s shift was almost over, a social worker came by, talking in measured tones about shelters, temporary housing, state-run facilities. Nathan listened, his jaw tight. He saw the naked terror in Jake's eyes, the unspoken plea for something, anything, different. He saw a young man, a broken bird, who had no safe nest. He thought of our quiet home, the space, the warm. He thought of the deep, quiet ache in his chest every time he looked at Jake. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones.

"Jake," he began, his voice softer than usual, cutting gently across the social worker’s monologue. "The social worker is doing her job, and these are good options, but… I have a different idea." Jake looked up, eyes wide, wary, searching Nathan’s face for a trick, a catch. Nathan took a deep breath. "My husband and I… we have a house. It’s quiet. There’s a spare room. No pressure, of course, but if you need a place to stay, to recover, to just… be safe… we’ve talked it through and we’d be honored to have you."

Silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant beeping of machines and the hushed hospital chatter outside. Jake's eyes searched Nathan’s, looking for a lie, for the inevitable disappointment he expected from life. Then, slowly, a flicker of something new, fragile and tentative, appeared – hope, perhaps, or simply a desperate yearning for respite. A single tear tracked a path of his cheek. He didn't speak, couldn't, but he reached out a trembling hand, a silent, almost imperceptible nod. Nathan gently squeezed his shoulder, a silent promise that for now, at least, he would be safe.

…

Nathan, with his doctor’s calm and boundless empathy, had handled the medical aspects with grace, ensuring Jake had the right supplies, the right creams, the discreet support he needed. I, the retired lawyer, had taken on the mantle of protective patriarch, my once-sharp legal mind now entirely focused on building a fortress of safety for this new joy in our lives. I did my fair share of diaper changing and cuddles when things got too much. Our fondness for Jake quickly became a love and we were doing our best to spoil him rotten. We were, perhaps, overly protective, but after what Jake had endured, how could we not be?

The familiar shuffle of feet on the stairs broke the silence, and moments later, Jake appeared in the doorway, all 5 foot 7 of him. His hair a mess, eyes still a little puffy from sleep. Standing in his normal bedtime attire of a T-shirt and diaper this one printed with green and blue checks and diapered puppies. “If I’m stuck in diapers, I may as well have a bit of fun with it.” He said one night ordering the ones he wanted. There are on the expensive side, so it’s a good job he’s a little cutie and gets away with it.

“Morning, guys,” he mumbled, a tentative smile gracing his lips. We both really wanted for him to start calling us ‘Dad,’ but ‘guys’ was a start, a compromise, I suppose.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Nathan replied, pushing a glass of orange juice towards him. “Sleep okay?”

Jake shrugged, taking the juice. “Mostly. Just… dreams.” He didn’t elaborate, and we didn’t push. He’d talk when he was ready.

Our mornings often unfolded this way – quiet, gentle, a space for Jake to feel safe and seen without pressure. We’d learned that routine and predictability were his anchors.

“Looks like all the paws are gone on your diaper, kiddo.” Nathan said kindly, after breakfast was eaten, approaching Jake, arms outstretched. “Let’s get you clean and dry, and more importantly find you a pair of pants.” The short young man wrapped his legs around my husband’s waist and his arms around his neck. Leaning into his shoulder as he was carried upstairs.

Later that morning, I was in my study, surrounded by the pleasant scent of old books and leather, trying to focus on the spreadsheet that was the household budget, when my phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number, an agency line. My internal alarm bells, honed over decades of legal practice, immediately went off.

“James Holloway,” I answered, my voice automatically shifting to its professional, no-nonsense register.

“Mr. Holloway, this is Arthur Jenkins from the Department of Child and Family Services,” a crisp, officious voice stated. “I’m calling regarding Jake Harrison.”

My grip on the phone tightened. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

“Well, sir, we’ve recently conducted a follow-up review of Jake’s placement, and it seems there has been… an oversight.” His tone was carefully neutral, but I could hear the subtle, chilling implication.

“An oversight? What kind of oversight?” My legal instinct was screaming.

“It has come to our attention, Mr. Holloway, that you and your… partner… are a same-sex couple.”

My jaw clenched. I knew where this was going. “And what, pray tell, does that have to do with Jake’s well-being? He’s thriving here. Nathan and I are recently retired, we’re financially secure, and we provide a safe, loving, stable home. He’s made remarkable progress since coming to us.”

“While we understand your perspective, Mr. Holloway,” Jenkins continued, his voice hardening infinitesimally, “our agency’s policy, particularly concerning vulnerable young adults, dictates that certain placements are… more appropriate. It is not considered proper for Jake, given his particular circumstances, to remain in a household with a same-sex couple.”

The blood drained from my face, then surged back with a furious heat. “Are you telling me,” I enunciated slowly, each word a hammer blow, “that you intend to remove Jake from our home because my husband and I are gay?”

“It’s about finding the most beneficial environment for a young man in his specific situation, sir,” Jenkins droned, clearly reciting from a script. “We’ve identified a new potential placement, a traditional family unit, that we believe would be more suitable. We’ll need to arrange for Jake’s reassignment within the next two weeks.”

“Absolutely not,” I stated, my voice dangerously calm. “Jake is not going anywhere. We followed every procedure, passed every assessment. This is discriminatory. This is illegal. And I promise you, Mr. Jenkins, if you even think about trying to remove Jake, you will find yourself in the middle of the most protracted, unpleasant, and publicly embarrassing legal battle your department has ever seen.”

A beat of silence on the other end. “Mr. Holloway, I advise you to reconsider. This isn’t a battle you want to fight.”

“Try me,” I countered, my voice low and firm. “You want to tell a traumatized young man who's finally found stability that he has to leave because he has two dads?!? Go right ahead. Tell him it’s ‘not proper.’ I dare you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Good Sir, I have a new legal case to prepare.” I hung up before he could respond, my hand trembling slightly as I slammed the receiver down. I paced my study, the adrenaline coursing through me. I had to tell Nathan. And Jake. How would Jake react? He’d only just begun to truly trust us, to let down his guard. This could shatter him.

Nathan found me a few minutes later, already sensing my agitation. “Babe..? What’s wrong? I could hear you from the living room.”

I explained, recounting Jenkins’s words, my voice laced with fury. Nathan’s face, usually so serene, crumpled. “They can’t be serious. After everything he’s been through… after how far he’s come…”

“They are serious, Nate, and they’re about to learn what happens when you cross Jim Holloway,” I declared, my lawyer’s resolve hardening into an impenetrable wall. “I’ll call my old firm, I’ll call every civil rights group I know. This is outrageous. This is discriminatory. Imagine having an issue with a couple of gay men helping a kid out with diaper changes!?!”

“I think the issue is ‘a couple of gay men’ in general.” Nathan reasoned.

Just then, Jake appeared in the doorway, drawn by the raised voices. He looked small, vulnerable, apprehension clouding his soft features. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Nathan immediately moved towards him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Jake, honey, come sit down. We need to talk.”

We sat him between us on the sofa, a united front. I took a deep breath, trying to temper my anger. “Jake, something… unpleasant just happened. A man from the agency called. He thinks you shouldn’t be here anymore.”

Jake’s eyes widened, filling with a familiar terror. “What? Why? What did I do?” His voice was barely a whisper.

“You didn’t do anything, sweet pea,” Nathan said gently, stroking his arm. “This isn’t about you. It’s about… them. They have a problem with us being a same-sex couple.”

Jake looked from Nathan’s kind face to my firm one, his brow furrowed in confusion. “But… but you’re my… you said… you said I was safe here.”

“And you are, Jake. You are safe here, baby boy,” I insisted, my voice ringing with certainty. “You are our son. And no bureaucrat, no bigot, is going to take you away from us. Do you understand? This is your home. You belong here. We will fight them with everything we have.”

Jake’s lower lip trembled. The panic was rising in his eyes, the old fears of abandonment and instability resurfacing. He looked down at his lap, fumbling with the hem of his t-shirt. “But… what if they make me go? I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with here with you guys.” His voice broke on the last word, and a tear tracked down his cheek.

It was a punch to the gut. The sheer vulnerability, the raw plea in his voice, solidified our resolve even further.

“They won’t make you go, Jake,” Nathan vowed, pulling him into a gentle hug. “We won’t let them. We promised we’d take care of you, and we’re going to keep that promise. You’re family now and families stick together.”

Jake clung to Nathan, his small frame shaking. I reached over, placing a hand on his back, feeling the tremor within him. My heart ached for him, for the renewed trauma he was experiencing. This was exactly what we had sworn to protect him from.

The rest of the day was a blur of phone calls and reassurances. I spent hours on the phone with old colleagues, discussing legal strategies, precedents, and the quickest path to a restraining order. Nathan stayed close to Jake, trying his best to distract him. Held him in a tight embrace when he burst into tears. Cradling him with his calm, steady presence. We tried to keep the atmosphere as normal as possible, but the undercurrent of tension was palpable. Jake was quieter than usual, his eyes darting nervously towards the phone whenever it rang. He still flinched at sudden noises, and the news had clearly brought back a barrage of painful memories.

At dinner, he picked at his food, his appetite gone. “What if they send me back to… to him?” he mumbled, his face pale.

“Never,” I stated, my voice like bedrock. “Jake, there is no scenario in which you ever go back to that man. Even if this agency tries anything, which they won’t succeed at, you would never be placed back in an abusive situation. That is carved in stone.”

Nathan nodded. “Not while I’m still breathing, Jake. You’re safe from him, always.”

He looked up at us, a glimmer of fragile relief in his eyes. It wasn’t enough to entirely erase the fear, but it was a start.

As night fell, a heavy silence settled over the house. We got Jake ready for bed early, telling him to get some rest. Nathan and I stayed up, planning our next moves, discussing the legal avenues, the public relations angle, everything we could leverage to ensure Jake remained with us. My mind was racing, analyzing, dissecting. I was a lawyer again, but this time, the stakes were profoundly personal.

Around midnight, exhaustion finally began to set in. “Let’s call it a night, love,” Nathan said, rubbing his temples. “We’ve done all we can for tonight. We’ll be sharp in the morning.”

We went to our bedroom, the familiar comfort of our king-sized bed a welcome sight. I drifted off quickly, my mind still sorting through legal statutes and arguments.

I don’t know how much time passed, but I was jolted awake by the sound of the carpet being brushed by the opening of the bedroom door. My eyes snapped open, and I saw a small shadow standing in the doorframe.

It was Jake.

He was wearing a comfy t-shirt and a thick nighttime diaper this one printed with cute safari animals , he looked small and vulnerable in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. He looked like a child, so small and lost. He was clutching a plush brown teddy bear, The bear Nathan had bought for him soon after he arrived.

“Jake? What is it?” Nathan’s voice, groggy with sleep, was instantly soft with concern.

Jake shuffled his feet. “Dads… can I…?” His voice was barely a whisper, thick with shame and fear. He pointed vaguely at our bed.

My heart twisted. He was twenty-one, but in that moment, he was a terrified child. The assault, the abandonment, the new threat of being uprooted – it had all weighed him down. He needed comfort, safety, a tangible manifestation of the protection we promised.

“Of course, sweetheart,” I said immediately, pushing back the covers. Nathan was already shifting, making space between us. “Come here, Jake. There’s always room for you.”

Jake hesitated for a moment longer, then took a tentative step into the room, then another. He padded across the carpet, and slowly, carefully, he climbed onto the bed between us. It was always surprising how light he is, folding himself into the space Nathan had created.

Nathan immediately wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. I reached out and gently stroked Jake’s hair, feeling the fine strands against my fingers. He was trembling slightly.

“You’re safe, Jake,” Nathan whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. “No one is going to take you away.”

Jake didn’t say anything. He just burrowed deeper, his small body pressed against Nathan’s chest. I scoop around so our boy was cuddled from both sides. Instinctively gave him a quick diaper check, he was still dry thankfully. He didn’t complain, didn’t seem embarrassed. All he wanted was the warmth, the security, the undeniable presence of his dads.

I felt Nathan’s other hand find mine under the covers, a silent acknowledgment of this sacred moment. Our love for each other, which had blossomed and deepened over years, now expanded to encompass this fragile, precious being. Our partnership, our resilience, our unwavering commitment to each other, now extended to protecting Jake from a world that had already shown him too much cruelty.

We lay there in the dark, the three of us, a quiet island of comfort against the encroaching fear. I felt Jake’s breathing slowly even out, his trembling subside. He was still, nestled safely between the two men who would fight tooth and nail for him.

I thought of Mr. Jenkins, of his narrow-minded prejudice. He could never understand this. He could never comprehend the depth of love that permeated this bed, this house. He could never see the strength of our family, not in its conventional shape, but in the unbreakable bonds of chosen love and fierce protection.

As Jake drifted into a fitful sleep. This was our family. This was our love. And no bureaucrat, no bigot, no amount of outdated prejudice would ever tear us apart. We would fight for Jake, for our family, for our right to simply exist and love. And as I drifted off to sleep, with my husband and my son safely by my side, I knew, with absolute certainty, that we would win. We always did.

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bebelogan24 · 1 month ago

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The moment the men crawl out of their cribs, deeply ashamed, they realize they have wet themselves like silly little infants. A warm, stale stench fills the air, a constant reminder of their utter lack of control.

The three men had been caught stealing money from their company, planning to retire early. As soon as they were caught, they were given a mortifying choice: either accept a year as a little baby, as their wives look after them, or attend prison for 10 years, where they will miss out on a good part of their lives.

As the men stand there, feeling the warm wee starting to stale in their pants and nappies, they look at the mattress of their cribs, knowing they have no choice. A yellow stain spreads across the white fabric, a map of their shame. The cheap plastic of their nappy crinkles with every movement, a constant, humiliating sound.

They can feel the dampness clinging to their skin, a clammy reminder of their regression. One of the men, tears welling in his eyes, notices a small puddle forming on the floor beneath him, the wee having leaked right through his nappy and pajamas. He tries to cover it with his foot, a futile attempt to hide his disgrace.

They have to call for their wives like little boys who need help. The words catch in their throats, thick with humiliation. "Mummy?" one of them whimpers, the sound cracking with suppressed sobs. Another, his face flushed with shame, simply starts to cry. The third, unable to speak, clutches at the bars of his crib, his body shaking with silent sobs.

They tear up, feeling very infantile and very silly, and call out. Hearing the footsteps on the stairs, their wives enter and maternally care for the grown men. One of the wives, a stern look on her face, sighs as she surveys the scene. "Oh, you silly boys," she says, her voice a mixture of exasperation and tenderness. "Look at the mess you've made. You'll need a good scrub before I change your nappies."

"Right," one says, her voice sharp, "let's get this sorted." She grabs a mop and bucket, the harsh scrape of plastic against the floor echoing in the room. The stale smell of urine intensifies as she begins to mop up the puddles, her movements brisk and efficient, betraying her disgust. "Honestly, you're worse than a actual baby," she mutters under her breath, earning a chorus of whimpers from the cribs.

Another wife strips the soiled sheets from the mattresses, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "The things I do for love," she sighs dramatically, before tossing the offending fabric into a laundry basket with unnecessary force. The bare plastic of the crib mattresses gleams under the harsh light, a stark reminder of the men's predicament.

The men stand there, exposed and vulnerable in their urine-soaked nappies. The shame is almost unbearable. One man can't meet his wife's eye, staring fixedly at the floor as if hoping it will swallow him whole. Another trembles, his lower lip wobbling as he fights back tears. The third simply closes his eyes, surrendering to the humiliation.

"Alright, strip those nappies off," one of the wives orders, her voice devoid of any warmth. With fumbling fingers, the men undo the tapes, the crinkling sound amplified in the silence. As the sodden nappies fall to the floor with a wet thud, the full extent of their shame is revealed. Their wrinkled winkies and pale bums are exposed to the cool air, vulnerable and infantile.

One man's wife calls for her sister to come and help. "Honestly, he's too heavy for me to lift on my own," she says, rolling her eyes. The sister arrives, stifling a giggle as she takes in the scene. Together, they lift the man onto a changing mat, his protests ignored. They wipe his bum and winky roughly with baby wipes, their faces impassive. The man winces at the coldness of the wipes, his body tense with mortification.

Once they are all cleaned and powdered, fresh nappies are applied, the tapes fastened with a firm tug. The men are then lifted back into their cribs, their bodies stiff with resentment. "There," one of the wives says, clapping her hands together. "All clean and ready for a nap."

As the men lie in their cribs, the wives begin to rock them gently, their movements mechanical and unloving. They sing infantile songs in monotone voices, the lyrics grating on the men's ears. "Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop," they drone, their eyes fixed on some distant point.

Despite their humiliation and anger, the gentle rocking and monotonous singing begin to have an effect. One by one, the men's eyes flutter closed, their bodies relaxing into the soft mattresses. Soon, the only sound in the room is the rhythmic creaking of the cribs and the droning lullabies, a testament to the men's utter and complete defeat. The wives, however, wear expressions of utter distaste, counting down the seconds until this torturous year is over. They hate babying their husbands.

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