Tracey Frillyknicks

Under Her Roof

Chapter 1 - Mother Knows Best

Claire was crying again.

She had her back to me, standing at the edge of the bed, folding clothes into the red duffel. Her shoulders shook with each breath, but her hands moved on autopilot. Not frantic. Not angry. Just steady, like she was preparing for a funeral.

I leaned on the doorframe with my arms crossed, trying to look calm, though every muscle in me was tight. I had braced myself for screaming. For things thrown at my head. Instead, she was quiet…and that was worse.

“How long are you planning to drag this out?” I asked finally.

She didn’t answer.

I shifted my weight. “I told you I’m sorry.”

Nothing.

“I don’t know what else you want from me.”

She turned sharply then, like she had a thousand words trapped behind her teeth but wouldn’t release a single one. Her face was drawn, exhausted. Her eyes red-rimmed but dry now. No tears left, just the hollow remains.

“I made a mistake,” I said, pushing off the frame. “One mistake.”

Her shoulders twitched, but she kept folding. Socks. Undershirts. Neatly rolled.

““I was drunk,” I added. “And she meant nothing. I told you that.”

Claire’s yanked the zipper shut with a sharp tug. “You think that makes it better? All it means is you wasted us for nothing.”

She turned then, facing me squarely. Her face was wet and raw, but her voice had hardened into something steady, almost calm. “You keep saying you’re still the man I married. But the truth is… you never were. You never grew up, Ethan. For YEARS I've been picking up after you, cooking for you, cleaning your shit off the toilet bowl, waiting for you to finally take some semblance of responsibility, feeling like your fucking mother, and then you go and do this...”

I swallowed hard. “I’m still the man you married.”

Her head shook once, slow and deliberate. “That’s exactly the problem. You haven’t changed at all. I thought I could get you to grow up eventually, but instead you’ve been stuck as this… boy I have to take care of. Not a husband. Not a partner. Certainly not a man.” She drew in a shuddering breath, steadied it, and looked at me with eyes that no longer wavered.

“Which is why this has to happen.”

The silence stretched between us, thick and weighted.

I broke it, because I always did. “Is this you talking? Or is your mother.” I pressed on. “God knows she’s been in our marriage since day one. Might as well move back into her guest room, let her pour you a rosé, stroke your hair, and tell you how right she was about me.”

Claire stood, turning slowly to face me. Her cheeks wet, her eyes rimmed in red. But her voice was low and steady: “You really think this is about her?”

I smirked, though my stomach knotted. “It’s always about her.”

“Maybe she just saw through you,” she said, brittle but clear. “Long before I did.”

That landed. She gripped the duffel bag gruffly of the bed.

“So what—” I scoffed, “you’ll hide out there for a week, cry to Mommy about your mean husband?”

She slung the strap over her shoulder, stepping past me.

“The bag,” she said softly. “Isn’t for me.”

I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Before she could answer, we both heard it: tires crunching on gravel. Headlights swept across the far wall, throwing long bars of light over the room. Claire’s eyes closed for a single breath.

My stomach dropped. “No…you didn’t.”

Claire said nothing. She didn’t need to.

I spun toward the hall, my heart thudding. “What is your mother doing here?”

Three sharp knocks hit the front door. Precise. Measured. Like everything she did.

Claire moved with mechanical resolve, down the hall, to the door. I followed a few steps but stopped when it swung open.

Kathy stepped inside. Slate-gray blouse, tailored slacks. Nails immaculate. Her chestnut hair swept back in immaculate, lacquered waves, framing her face with uptight perfection. Not a strand dared to fall loose. Her face was a mask of severity, lips pressed thin, eyes sharp with the kind of judgment that made my stomach knot. Even the way she held herself (Spine rigid, chin lifted, every movement measured) radiated discipline and control.  Her heels clicked once on the tile, echoing like a gavel.

Then her gaze found Claire. In an instant, the frost melted. The lines in her brow softened, the edges of her mouth curved, and the stern figure transformed into something almost tender. She crossed the room swiftly, pulling Claire into a tight embrace, her hand cradling the back of her daughter’s head the way you soothe a little one after a nightmare.

“Oh, honey,” she murmured. “There, there! You’re doing the right thing. This is for the best.”

Claire sagged into her like she’d been holding her breath for years.

“I know this isn’t easy,” Kathy said, low and deliberate. “But it’s for the best. Everything is in place. Everything we talked about.”

Claire nodded faintly, still gripping her mother like she would fall without her.

“It’ll be okay,” Kathy assured her. “I’ve made sure of it.”

Claire exhaled, a broken release, and for the first time all night I saw the scared part of her peek through. Relief flickered at the edges of her grief.

My jaw clenched. My fists balled.

Then Kathy turned to me.

The warmth vanished. Her gaze swept over me slowly, cataloguing everything she’d always despised: my stubble, my slouch, my existence.

“Is that the bag?” Kathy asked, nodding toward the duffel.

Claire’s lips pressed into something that almost resembled a smile. Her voice was steadier now, edged with something darker. “It’s not much. Just the basics. You’ll have the rest waiting.”

Kathy’s eyes stayed on me, her voice smooth and certain. “Yes. His new wardrobe is already prepared.”

I blinked hard. “What?”

Kathy bent down, lifted the duffel with one hand, and straightened like it weighed nothing.

“You think you can just show up here and—” I started.

“Show up?” Her eyes cut to mine, cold. “No, dear. I was invited. You’re the one who’s no longer welcome here.”

My fists clenched. “Who the hell do you think you are? Just because you’re her mother doesn’t mean you’re mine!”

She didn’t blink. Her voice came low, steady, final. “No. If you were my son, I’d have raised you better. Which is exactly what I’m going to do.”

The words landed harder than a slap.

I turned to Claire, desperate for mercy, for hesitation, for anything. But she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Wait…” My throat tightened. “What are you saying?”

Claire finally looked up, her voice quiet but unshakable. “You’re going to stay with her. For the foreseeable future.”

My mouth went dry. “What?”

“You can’t stay here,” she said. “Not after this.”

Kathy stepped closer, her tone flat as steel. “You don’t have options, Ethan. You burned those bridges already.”

My chest seized. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m beyond serious,” Kathy said. “Your behavior is out of control. You’ve shown you’re no man. So we’re going to start over.”

I stared at her, fury spiking, shame crawling up my throat. “You’ve always wanted this. You never thought I was good enough.”

“Because you weren’t,” she answered, ice in her tone. “And now you’re mine to fix.”

My voice rose too loud in the narrow entryway. “What does that even mean? Start over? Fix? I’m a person, not a—”

“A person who needs structure,” Kathy cut in, “A person who cannot be trusted to make adult choices without supervision.”

Behind me, Claire’s voice cracked. “If you behave, maybe…one day…you can come back.”

The word “behave” stuck in my chest. Like she was talking to a child, not her husband. When she finally looked at me, I saw something I didn’t want or expect to see: relief. She was steadier now that I was leaving.

Kathy set the duffel by her side, her gaze never leaving mine.

I looked between them, fury climbing my throat. Part of me wanted to stand my ground, to tell Kathy to get out, to remind Claire this was my house. For a moment I even thought about it.

But the silence stretched, and the truth pressed down on me. I had no money. No place to go. Not even Claire on my side anymore. If there was any chance of getting her back, it meant doing whatever my wife and my bitch of a mother-in-law said.

I opened my mouth, but Kathy’s hand came up, palm out, cutting me off.

“No,” she said. Firm. Final. “You’ve said enough.”

Claire’s tears kept running, but her expression told the truth: she wanted this.

Kathy pointed to the door. “Go,” she ordered. “Now.”

I hesitated, every part of me burning to resist. Then I forced myself forward. Not because I wanted to, but because I knew I had to. This was the price: staying with my monster mother-in-law…and whatever came with her. I didn’t know what that would be, only that I’d hate every second of it. If only I knew then how right I would be.

I turned for one last glance at Claire. Through the blur of her tears, her mouth curved into a small, knowing smile. The kind that said she was already picturing what waited for me under Kathy’s roof. Then she shut the door with a heavy slam, the sound echoing in my chest long after it was closed.

******

The night air hit me like a slap. Cold. Still. Final.

Kathy was already waiting beside the car. She opened the rear door without a word.

“I can sit up front,” I muttered.

She didn’t answer. Just raised her eyebrow.

I sighed and slid into the back seat. Before I could reach for the belt, Kathy leaned in.

“I can do it,” I said quickly, shrinking away from her hand.

She ignored me. Buckled it herself, clicking it in like I was a child who might squirm out of it.

She shut the door.

The interior smelled like leather and peppermint. Neat. Clean. The dash spotless, the air set a few degrees too cool. She got behind the wheel, eyes forward, and without a word, started the engine.

We pulled away from the house, the tires crackling against gravel, then humming softly as we hit pavement.

We drove in silence. Not just quiet, but controlled. Like even noise had to get permission. Finally, just as we passed the last streetlight before the highway, Kathy spoke.

"Things are going to be different now."

I stared out the window. The night was a blur of trees and blacktop. "Different how?"

She didn’t answer right away. Just adjusted the mirror slightly, checking on me like I was cargo.

"You’ve made a mess of things, Ethan," she said. "Claire needed help. So now I’m helping."

It was only about a 30 minute drive to her house, but it felt like hours. Kathy parked the car in the driveway and shut off the engine with smooth, practiced ease. No words. No glances. Just the subtle click of the ignition and the soft sigh of the vehicle settling.

Outside, the porch light spilled its dull glow over her pristine front walk. I sat there in silence, hands clenched in my lap, hoping she’d just go inside and forget I was here. Instead, the driver’s door opened. A moment later, the rear door swung open beside me.

Kathy stood there, composed as ever. Not impatient. Not angry. Just... resolute.

“Out,” she said.

I hesitated. She didn’t repeat herself. When I didn’t move fast enough, her hand reached in and unclipped my seatbelt. She gripped my wrist and yanked me out of the car with surprising strength. Firm. Direct. 

I stumbled out, my feet hitting the concrete. The air felt too still, too cold. She didn’t remove her hand, just kept it there, palm flat between my shoulder blades, steering me up the path like she was leading someone into a holding cell.

No words. No glances. Just forward.

The front door opened without a sound. She held it for me with one hand, gesturing inside with the other.

“Shoes off.”

The words were even. Not hostile. Not warm. Just… absolute.

I kicked them off and stepped into the house. It smelled like lemon polish and something faintly floral. Clean. Staged. Like it had never been lived in, only maintained.

Kathy locked the door behind us with a quiet, final-sounding click.

“Come along,” she said, her tone deceptively gentle for the first time. “Let’s introduce you to your new living arrangements.”

I trailed her through the spotless hall, past the kitchen and a showroom-perfect living room. She didn’t explain anything. Didn’t say where I’d be sleeping. She just walked until she stopped at the very last door.

She gripped the handle, looking back at me like we were at some sort of junction between past and present, and her evil, sinister grin told me I would not like the future. “This…” she said, turning the handle, “is where you will be staying…”

When it opened, something shifted in my chest.

Cloud-pattern wallpaper. Soft, colorful foam tile flooring. Pastel curtains drawn tight over the window. A crib. A changing table. A low bookshelf with board books. A bunch of dolls, stuffed animals, plastic toys, rattles, and who knows what else bulging out of a toy bin. I knew Kathy used to run an at-home daycare. But that was years ago. She was retired. This couldn’t be—

“Wait…” I said, my voice dry, unsteady. “This…this is my room?”

She stepped calmly inside, flicking on a bunny-shaped nightlight like she was preparing a nursery for naptime.

“I closed the daycare when I retired,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “But some things were worth keeping. And I made a few upgrades. A little more your size. Just for you.”

I stepped back, but the hallway was narrow. Nowhere to retreat.

She turned to face me then, hands folded gently in front of her, her expression the picture of maternal poise.

“It’s important to have structure,” she said softly. “Routine. Boundaries.”

I stared at the crib that was both way too big for a toddler, and too small for a grown adult. The railing extended almost all the way to the ceiling, looking more like a prison cell than a place to sleep. 

“This has to be a mistake,” I whispered.

Kathy gave the faintest smile. Not cruel, just…amused. “No, sweetheart,” she said, her tone gentle in a way that made my skin crawl. “The only mistake was my daughter marrying you. But I intend to correct that.”

She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, as if approaching a skittish child.

“This room is yours now. Everything in it has a purpose. And everything that happens here,” she added, arm waving aloft like a showman, “is for your own good.”

My chest tightened. I scanned the room again, slower this time, like my brain needed proof that this was really happening. The mobile hanging above the crib twinkled softly, its pastel moons and stars spinning on some hidden motor. A faint lullaby melody drifted out with it. Gentle, repetitive, maddening.

The smell hit me next. Sweet and sterile. Powder, wipes, something vaguely floral beneath it all. A scent I hadn’t been around in years, but now it clung to everything in the room like wallpaper. Even the walls themselves felt off. Cartoon animals in soft colors. A banner above the dresser that read “Sweet Dreams” in looping letters. Every corner of the space whispered the same thing: This is not for you. Not the version of you that still thinks he’s a man.

This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t an empty threat. This was prepared. A room made ready. A room waiting.

Waiting for me. 

A lump formed in my throat. I didn’t belong here. Not in this house, not in this room, not in this world she was walking me into.

“You burned your first chance, Ethan. Now it’s time for attempt number 2.” She smirked to herself at that, as if ‘the number 2’ thing was part of a joke I didn’t yet get. “You’ll sleep here. You’ll follow instructions. And maybe, one day, you’ll earn the right to be treated like a man again.”

I stared at her, my mouth dry. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t—”

“Pants off.”

“What?” I blinked.

She faced me fully now, arms crossed with infuriating calm. “Take. Off. Your. Pants. It’s time to get you changed.”

I blinked, thrown. “Wait… changed?”

She didn’t answer, just stared, like it wasn’t a question worth responding to.

My mouth opened, then closed. I looked down at my waistband, then back at her, waiting for her to step out, to turn around at least, but she didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

I shifted uncomfortably. “Uh…can I get a little privacy?”

That faint smile again. Cool, composed, and deeply unbothered. “No, Ethan. You don’t get that anymore.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” she said, stepping forward with measured control, “everything you do from now on will be supervised. And I do mean everything. You proved you couldn’t be trusted on your own.”

I opened my mouth, closed it again. My skin prickled. There was no space here, no dignity left to reach for.

She held her ground. “Now take off your pants.”

I shook my head, trying to stand firm, but the squeaky padded foam reminded me of how bizarre this all was. “You wanna see my dick? Is that what this is??”

Her eyes didn’t so much as flicker. “I’ve seen plenty of penises before, Ethan.” She sighed, sounding tired, like this was one more tedious task in a long list of them. “And besides…Claire told me there certainly isn’t anything impressive about yours...”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. I stared at her, frozen, pulse hammering behind my ears.

She tilted her head slightly, her voice softening in that condescending, practiced way of hers. “Let’s not make this more drawn out than it needs to be. I suggest you get used to a little exposure. It’ll be happening often, i’m afraid. Kind of a…necessity.”

I stood there, fists clenched, jaw tight. My skin prickled with heat.

“Fine.” I finally said. “You want a show? I’ll give you a fucking show!”

I shoved my pants down hard, letting them pool around my ankles. My boxers followed in one quick, defiant motion. I stood tall, bare and unflinching, daring her to flinch.

She didn’t.

Instead, Kathy let out a single, amused snigger. Like I’d just confirmed something for her.

“That’s it?” she said. “That little guy’s supposed to scare me?”

My chest caved in on itself.

She took a step closer, folding her arms with slow, deliberate calm. She didn’t recoil. Didn’t flinch. Just observed me for a beat, that smirk never leaving her lips.

“I suppose it’s fitting,” she went on, her tone like silk drawn over sandpaper. “Something that small doesn’t belong in grown-up underwear anyway.”

She turned to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled something out. The sound alone made my stomach twist: the crinkle of thick plastic. She unfolded it slowly, like she wanted me to absorb every inch of it. The thing looked massive. Bulky. Ridiculous.

A diaper.

She held it by the waistband, letting it dangle, exaggerated in its absurd size.

“This,” she said plainly, “is what you’ll be wearing. Every day. Every night. Until you prove you’re worthy of anything else.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She turned to the padded table beside the crib and gave it a single, deliberate tap with her palm.

“Hop up.”

Her voice wasn’t cruel. It was composed. Routine. Like she was already used to giving this kind of order. Like it wasn’t up for debate.

I’d never seen one so thick. So infantilizing. The white plastic gleamed under the overhead light, adorned with soft pastel shapes: stars, clouds, maybe a cartoon bunny. It wasn’t medical. It was decorative. Intentional. My brain stalled trying to process it. This wasn’t symbolic. It wasn’t a warning.

This was real.

“You’re serious,” I croaked, voice catching in my throat.

Kathy tilted her head, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Of course.”

My mouth opened again, but nothing came out.

She stepped forward, holding the diaper like it was any other garment. Like it was underwear. Like this was just normal.

“Why?” I finally managed.

She smiled faintly. 

“Because you’ve proven you can’t be trusted with the responsibilities of an adult. You betrayed my daughter. You made choices that hurt people who loved you. You burned through your privileges.”

I stared at her, my chest rising fast now. The walls felt too close. My skin too tight.

“And this is how you fix that?” I spat. “By putting me in—”

“In pampers,” she said, cutting me off, so that there was no misconception as to what it was. “Where you belong.”

I looked down at it again. The tapes, the sheer size of it. No hiding that thing under clothes. No mistaking what it meant.

“What the hell am I supposed to do in that?” I asked, my voice dropping to a low, strained whisper.

She didn’t blink.

“Exactly what babies do in theirs,” she said flatly, and as if she needed to clarify: “You’ll wet them. You’ll mess them. Without exception.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I staggered back a step like I’d been hit. How could she say something like that so casually?

“You’re out of your mind,” I breathed.

Her expression didn’t change.

“That’s enough,” she said. “Now get on the table.”

I didn’t move.

The diaper crinkled faintly in her hand. She didn’t speak, just leveled me with that calm, crushing stare.

“This is your life now, Ethan.” She finally said. “The sooner you accept that, the less miserable you’ll make it for yourself.”

My mouth opened, but this time it wasn’t a retort. It was rage.

“Fuck this,” I snapped. “Fuck you, and your creepy little nursery, and your sick power trip. I’m not pissing in a fucking diaper. I’m not sleeping in a goddamn crib. You’re insane if you think I’m playing along with this psychotic—”

She moved with lightning quickness, speed that seemed far too fast for a woman in her 50’s. Her fingers clamped like steel around my ear, twisting sharply.

“Agh—Jesus—!”

“ENOUGH!,” she hissed. Her face was suddenly inches from mine, teeth clenched, eyes blazing with a venom I’d never seen outside of my worst nightmares. Every syllable rattled out through those gritted teeth, hot breath hitting my cheek.

“You don’t curse at me. You don’t defy me. Not in my house. Not under my roof. Not in my care. Do you understand?”

She yanked me so hard I thought my ear would rip clean off, dragging me with her like I weighed nothing. My bare feet squeaked against the padded floor as I stumbled after her, off-balance and cursing, until she reached the corner.

A hard-backed chair sat neatly by the wall. Innocuous, unthreatening. Until she sat and yanked me down across her thighs.

“What the—get off me! Let go! Let GO!”

But she didn’t.

One strong arm pinned my back, her voice a low, scorching growl.

“You do NOT get to yell in my house!!”

Smack!

“You don’t get to curse at me.”

Smack!

“You don’t get to throw tantrums like a little boy who didn’t get his way—”

Smack! Smack!

Each swat cracked across my bare ass, fast and brutal, echoing off the walls. The sting lit my nerves on fire, shock cutting straight through my panic. I flailed, but never committed to breaking free, because fighting back meant escalating, meant hurting her, and that would make me a monster in Claire’s eyes. Even in my fury, I knew if I laid a finger on Kathy, Claire would never forgive me.

“This,” she said, punctuating every word with another strike, “is. what. happens. when. you. act. like. a. spoiled. little. BRAT!”

Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!

I thrashed, trying to push myself off, but she pinned my arm behind my back painfully, pressing it down with her forearm with surprising strength for a middle-aged woman. When my legs kicked and flailed, she threw her thigh over those too, holding me down.  By the time my brain caught up, to what was happening my leverage gone. Strength didn’t matter if you were pinned awkwardly.

Smack!

“You think you’re too big for consequences?!” Smack! “You think you get to break my daughter’s heart and walk away untouched?”

Smack! Smack! Smack!

“You’re not a man, Ethan.” Smack! “Not anymore.” Smack! “And certainly not in my house. Under MY roof!!”

I wailed and whined. It wasn’t planned, it just came out of me in a pitiful, high, cracking sound that echoed like it belonged to someone else.

“Stop! Please! Just stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

She paused.

My chest heaved across her thighs as I fought for shaky, labored breaths. Heat searing through my thighs and asscheeks, every nerve ending throbbing.

Kathy’s voice came quiet, steady. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes,” I gasped, fighting back tears. “Yes!! I swear I have! I’ll be good. I’ll wear the stupid diaper! Please…”

But she wasn’t looking at me anymore.

Her eyes had shifted upward, just above the corner chair.

My gaze followed. And then I saw them.

A neat row of implements hung from a simple wooden rack: a silicone slapper, a leather strap, a thick-handled hairbrush, what looked like ping-pong paddle and, finally, a rather large wooden spoon. 

I watched through tear stained eyes as she lifted it off the hook.

“Not yet you haven’t.”

“No—no, please!!” I begged pathetically, “you don’t have to—”

“Quiet!” she snapped. “You’ll speak when spoken to.”

She readjusted me on her thighs, her posture just as poised, just as calm. But the spoon tapped softly against her palm as if testing the weight.

“Every time you throw a tantrum, this is what happens. Every time you raise your voice, or act out, or forget your place, this is what you get!”

I shook my head wildly, tears welling up now. “I won’t…I promise! I won’t forget…”

Her hand yanked my arm back again, her legs wrapped over my thighs, as if she knew they would be needed.

“You will forget,” she said coldly. “But don’t worry. I have no problem reminding you. I’ve wanted to do this to you for a very long time!”

The first strike of the spoon was different.

It hissed.

It bit.

The sting went bone-deep.

“Ahhh! No!!! Kathy!! PLEASE!!”

THWACK!!! THWACK!!! THWACK!!!

“You are not in charge.” THWACK!!!

 “You do not get choices.” THWACK!!!

 “From now on, you earn privileges.” THWACK!!!

 “You behave, you obey, or this is what you get.” THWACK!!!THWACK!!!THWACK!!!

I broke.

There was no dignity left in me, no rebellion, no bite. Just a wet, gasping, snot-dripping mess sobbing across her lap.

When she finally stopped, her breath was steady. Her pulse calm. Mine wasn’t.

She rested the spoon across my burning backside for a moment, her fingers tapping once on the smooth wood. Then she spoke, almost gently.

“And one more thing.”

I sniffled, not daring to look up.

“You don't call me Kathy anymore.”

Her hand slid under my chin, lifting my face just enough to meet her eyes.

“If you’re going to be in diapers, Ethan,” she said, voice silky and cruel, “then it's only fitting you call me something more appropriate, don’t you think?”

She let the moment hang, watching the shame bloom in my eyes.

“From now on,” she finished, “you will call me Gam-Gam.”

My stomach turned. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. She gave my cheek two light, patronizing taps.

“Say it.”

My lips parted. A tremble. A croak. “Y-y-yes…G–g-g-Gam-Gam…”

“Good boy.”

She eased the wood off my blistered cheeks and stood, tapping it once against her thigh like a period at the end of a sentence.

“Stand up.”

I stumbled to my feet, legs trembling, hands barely able to cover myself.

She hung the spoon back on its hook carefully, deliberately, like it was a tool in a well-organized workshop.

Then she turned, calm as ever, holding out her hand. “Come with me.”

My mouth opened, but I didn’t speak.

“Now.”

I gulped in fear. Terrified of my own Mother-in-Law. I took her worn, leathery hand and she pulled me forward.

As she led me toward the door, her voice was smooth again, almost casual. “We’re going to do something about that little mouth of yours,” she crooned. “And then Gam-Gam can put you in your puffy pampers where you belong.”

The words hit harder than the spoon, sinking into me like a verdict. My stomach lurched, but her grip only tightened, pulling me forward toward the bathroom.

To Be Continued