Prologue

"How is the job hunting going?" Jamie's father asked from the living room.

Jamie sighed, the sound lost in the scrape of his coat against the hook by the door. The front door clicked shut behind him, sealing him back into the modest one-story house—all his father could afford without the financial support of his mother. The air inside was stale with the smell of microwaved dinners and old coffee. "About as well as you can imagine," Jamie mumbled, already moving toward the hallway.

His father's lips thinned. The man sat in his recliner—the same spot he occupied every evening, the leather worn smooth where his calloused hands rested—and even from across the room, Jamie could see the dark circles under his eyes deepen. "You're out of school, buddy." The word buddy landed like a weight. "You aren't going to college, you don't have a job. If you want, I can help you."

"No, thank you." The words came too quickly, sharp enough that Jamie winced at his own tone.

He knew his father would help—but help came with a price. His father would find Jamie work at the steel mill, or the manufacturing plant, somewhere that would coat Jamie's hands in grease and calluses. The thought made his stomach turn. What was wrong with being a nurse? Or an administrative assistant? Clean, comfortable, well paid work.

But he couldn't say that, not out loud.

"I applied for school," Jamie offered, forcing steadiness into his voice. "As well as several jobs."

His father waved him off with one rough hand, leaning back with a sigh that suggested he'd heard this before. "What are you wanting to go to school for? Why not a trade school instead? You could be an electrician—they earn good money."

Jamie's throat tightened. "I... I'll think about it."

"There's a game on in a little bit. Want to join me?"

Another game. Jamie could picture it already—sitting beside his father, pretending to care about players and statistics he couldn't keep straight, feeling his father's sideways glances whenever Jamie failed to react at the right moments.

"Maybe later," Jamie said, already moving down the hall. "I need to work on my resume. That might be why I'm having trouble."

His father nodded absently, already turning back toward the TV.

Jamie kicked off his shoes and escaped into his bedroom, closing the door with a soft click.

The room assaulted him the moment he stepped inside.

Sports memorabilia covered every surface. Jerseys—autographed, framed and expensive—hung on one wall like trophies of a life he'd never lived. Pin-up girls smiled down from above his bed, their glossy eyes watching him with a judgment he felt in his bones. A signed football sat on his dresser, the leather scuffed just enough to look authentic. His favorite team's logo decorated his blanket, bold and aggressive against the beige carpet.

No matter how many times he rearranged it—no matter how much more he added—it never felt right.

The gun rack was the latest addition, mounted beside his closet. The rifle his father had given him rested there, wood polished to a shine. Jamie's gaze snagged on it and stayed. His stomach twisted, remembering that hunting trip. The recoil against his shoulder. The deer collapsing in the distance. His father's proud smile while Jamie fought not to vomit.

He was so… tired.

Jamie glanced down the hallway—the sound of the television droned on, his father settled—and closed the door. He moved to his closet, pushing aside hanging jackets and piles of laundry until his fingers found the shoebox buried at the bottom.

His hands trembled as he pulled it free.

Inside, a photograph rested on top of a leather-bound journal. Not a diary. Jamie refused to call it that, even in his own thoughts. Beneath that, a thin stack of diapers—precious few. He lifted the photo carefully, as though it might crumble, and his mother's face smiled back at him—warm, open, safe.

The tears came before he could stop them.

"Mother..." The word broke apart in his throat. He clutched the photo to his chest, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She would have understood. She had understood, in the quiet moments when his father wasn't watching. But she was gone now, and Jamie was alone in this house that felt like a prison.

Several minutes passed before the tightness in his chest finally eased. He set the photo aside with shaking hands and reached for the stack of diapers—A pamphlet fluttered out, landing face-up on the carpet.

Jamie frowned, picking it up. The glossy paper showed an illustration of rolling hills and impossible architecture, the kind of fantastical imagery everyone recognized. The Diaper Dimension. Portal travel was common enough—humans went there for work, for adventure, for a fresh start. But Jamie had never seriously considered it. It had always felt out of reach, like something people with courage did.

People unlike him.

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

Jamie's heart lurched. He shoved the box back into the closet, kicking clothes over it just as his father opened his door a crack.

"The game's about to start once you're done with that." A pause. "Bud, you've got to start stepping up in life. If you want to make it, you need to be decisive. You need to make a choice and stick to it. You can't just go around expecting things to fall into your lap—you have to take them."

The footsteps continued toward the bathroom, but the words hung in the air like smoke.

Jamie's eyes drifted back to the pamphlet in his hands. The illustration seemed to shimmer under his desk lamp—or maybe that was just his tears.

Just take it.

It would be so easy. One phone call. They'd handle the rest—the paperwork, the transport, the whole impossible leap into another world. 

Another life.

His chin lifted. His grip on the pamphlet tightened until the paper crinkled.

His father was right. He needed to step up. He needed to decide what was best for Jamie—not what his father wanted, not what everyone expected. What Jamie needed.

With trembling fingers, he pulled his phone free and dialed the number printed at the bottom of the pamphlet.

The line rang once. Twice.

Somewhere down the hall, the sports announcer's voice erupted into excited commentary.

Jamie closed his eyes and waited for someone to answer, knowing—with absolute certainty—that his father would never forgive him.

***

Mommy gently patted Samantha's back, and a bubble of air escaped her lips in a soft burp. The warm milk sat heavy in her tummy, making her feel sleepy and safe. 

Samantha—or as Mommy liked to call her—Sammy, giggled, and Mommy dabbed her face clean with a cloth that smelled like lavender. Samantha had spent years in the Diaper Dimension, coming here when she was only eighteen. She had no idea how long she had been a part of her new family, and she didn’t care. 

This was her life—her perfect life.

She had long since stopped counting her birthdays, why bother? The balloons never changed, the count of candles always remained the same. In Mommy’s eyes, Samantha was one, no more, no less. She was Mommy’s perfect baby.

Mommy was so pretty. Her hair caught the afternoon sunlight warming the park around them, and when she smiled down at Sammy, her whole face glowed. Sammy knew Mommy loved her a lot—she could feel it in the way Mommy held her.

Before she could nestle back into that warmth, strong hands lifted her from behind. Suddenly she was cradled in Daddy's arms, his smiling face nuzzling hers, his stubble tickling her cheeks. She squealed with delight, her hands reaching for his nose.

He looked tired. His eyes drooped at the corners, and the smile didn't quite reach them the way it had yesterday. The skin under his eyes was darker, like he'd been awake too long. But that hadn't stopped him from loving her—it never did.

"Want to play, munchkin?" he asked, his voice rough but warm.

"Play time!" she beamed.

And there it was—that smile. Tired or not, it meant the world to her. She would do anything to see that expression, that proud look he got when she completed a complicated puzzle or conquered the big slide at the playground all by herself.

The park smelled like fresh-cut grass and sunshine. The swings creaked in the breeze, and other Littles shrieked with laughter from the sandbox. Daddy held Sammy's hand as she toddled across the mulch, her legs wobbly but determined.

Mommy sat on the park bench nearby, her phone in her lap, her gaze fixed somewhere past the playground equipment. She was providing extra security! A bodyguard with a watchful eye, making sure no bad guys snuck up on them.

Sammy didn't mind. She loved playing with Daddy.

He helped her climb the ladder to the slide—his hands steady on her waist, ready to catch her if she slipped. When she reached the top, she looked back at Mommy, waving with both hands. Mommy waved back, but her smile looked different. Smaller. Like it took effort.

"Ready?" Daddy asked from below.

Sammy nodded and pushed off. The slide was smooth and fast, and she landed in Daddy's waiting arms with a triumphant laugh.

"Again!" she demanded.

They went down three more times before Mommy called out from the bench, her voice cutting across the playground noise. "It's time to go home!"

Sammy toddled over eagerly, her legs tired but happy.

After a quick diaper change on the picnic table—Mommy making silly faces to keep her from squirming—she was strapped into the stroller, panting slightly from all the excitement. 

Mommy handed her a sippy cup of apple juice, and Sammy nursed it happily, the sweet liquid cool against her tongue.

Daddy took the lead walking back home. That was the kind of leader he was—scouting the way, making sure Sammy and Mommy were safe! He walked several paces ahead, his shoulders tight, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Mommy pushed the stroller in silence. Sammy looked up at her from below, watching the way Mommy's jaw was set, her eyes focused straight ahead. She looked like she was thinking very hard about something important. Probably planning dinner! Grown-ups always had so much to think about.

They arrived back home, and it was time for Sammy's favorite time—cartoons!

Soon enough, she was sitting on the living room floor, her favorite blanket spread beneath her, clapping and singing along to Naomi and Oliver’s silly hijinks. Naomi was getting into trouble again, trying to bake a cake and accidentally turning everything purple. Sammy giggled, bouncing in place.

Even the loud television didn't muffle the sounds from the kitchen.

"—can't keep doing this!" Daddy's voice rang out, sharp and high.

"You think I want this?" Mommy shot back, just as loud.

Silly Mommy, silly Daddy! They were trying to see who could shout the loudest! It was a fun game—Sammy had played it before with other kids at daycare.

She tried her best, letting out a long stream of enthusiastic babbles around her pacifier, her voice rising and falling in exaggerated sing-song. But she wasn't even close to the loudest—Daddy won that round easily, his voice booming through the walls.

Hopefully Mommy would win next time.

It was Daddy's turn to bathe Sammy tonight.

She loved bathtime with him! He always let her get extra bubbles, piling them high until they covered her arms like fluffy clouds. She scooped up a handful and carefully shaped them into a crown, placing it on Daddy's head where he knelt beside the tub.

"There!" she announced proudly. "You're a king!"

Daddy smiled, but his eyes were red and puffy. Silly Daddy—that's what happened when you got soap in them! Sammy knew from experience how much it stung. She'd cried for a whole minute last week when bubbles got in her eyes during her bath.

"Thank you, princess," Daddy said quietly, his voice thick.

He lifted her out of the tub, wrapping her in a towel that smelled like fabric softener, and dried her carefully—patting her hair, rubbing her arms and legs until she was warm and cozy.

Clean and dry, Sammy was handed off to Mommy at the doorway to the nursery. Daddy's hands lingered for just a moment before he let go, his fingers brushing against Mommy's.

Mommy took her without a word.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem like Mommy wanted to play peek-a-boo tonight like she normally did when dressing Sammy. She just pulled the pajamas on efficiently—arms in, legs in, snap snap snap—her movements mechanical. She was probably just tired. She certainly looked it, with dark circles under her eyes that matched Daddy's.

Why didn't they both take a nap? Sammy knew firsthand how great naps were. They fixed everything.

Mommy lifted her into her arms, holding her close. Sammy's eyelids were already drooping, heavy with sleep. Her head rested against Mommy's chest, and she could hear the steady thump-thump of Mommy's heartbeat—fast, like she'd been running.

"I love you, sweetheart," Mommy whispered into her hair, kissing the top of her head. Her breath was warm, her arms tight.

"I love you too, Mommy," Sammy mumbled, her words slurred with exhaustion.

Mommy rocked her gently, swaying side to side. The motion was soothing, familiar. Safe.

"No matter what," Mommy continued, her voice breaking, "I love you. I care about you. I—" She choked on the words, her chest hitching beneath Sammy's cheek. She probably needed a drink of water. Having lots of fun did that to a person.

"I will find you," Mommy whispered, so softly Sammy almost missed it. "I'll come back."

Well, of course Mommy would be back! She always woke Sammy in the morning with tickles and kisses. 

Silly Mommy!

Sammy felt herself being lowered into the crib, the familiar mattress soft beneath her. Mommy tucked the blanket around her—the one with the yellow ducks—and Sammy's fingers curled around the edge, pulling it to her chin.

"Sweet dreams, baby," Mommy said.

Sammy's eyes were already closed, sleep pulling her down like a warm wave.

Little did Samantha know, as she drifted off surrounded by the smell of lavender and fabric softener, that when she woke, it wouldn't be to Mommy's smiling face.

It would be to a stranger with a kind but tired expression, someone who introduced herself as a social worker and spoke in soft, careful tones that Sammy didn't understand.

Little did Sammy know that the last time she felt Mommy's heartbeat beneath her cheek, the last time she heard Daddy's booming laugh, the last time she saw them both in the same room—

Was that night.

She would spend years wondering what she'd done wrong. What she could have done differently. If maybe, if she'd been a better girl, a quieter girl, a perfect girl—

They would have stayed.