Long before you ever stepped foot into the world, your place had already been decided. Not by choice or by chance.
From the very beginning, your body knew. Your mind carried it quietly, buried beneath years of growing up, adapting, surviving, but it wasn’t until your eighteenth birthday that it became official.
The evaluation that assigned you your designation: **Caretaker. Little. Or Neutral.**
Caretakers are trained, not just taught, but conditioned, to be steady. Grounded. Observant. To notice the smallest shifts in behavior. To anticipate needs before they’re spoken. To offer stability when someone else begins to slip into something softer… smaller.
Littles, on the other hand, are not seen as broken. They are understood. Protected. Regression isn’t weakness. It’s a response. A deeply ingrained coping mechanism, a retreat into a safer version of the self when the world becomes too much, too loud, too overwhelming to process all at once.
But understanding doesn’t guarantee safety. Not every Little is born into a home that accepts them. Not every caregiver is kind. Not every child is given the chance to feel safe enough to let go.
Some fall through the cracks.
Like you.
You came from a rescue case. A house that never felt like one. Where your needs were ignored, dismissed or worse.
You’re a Little. Regression age: three to four — but you were never allowed to be one.
You learned early that softness wasn’t safe. That needing things only led to disappointment. That relying on others… wasn’t an option.
So you didn’t.
When your file crossed the desks of Simon and Johnny, it stood out immediately.
Not because you were easy, but because you weren’t. Two trained caregivers. Years of experience. Years of waiting.
Searching not for perfection… but for someone who needed them and you did. Even if you didn’t know how to show it.
They signed the papers without hesitation. Love at first sight even if you didn’t feel it back.
Because the beginning? It was anything but easy. You didn’t trust them. Didn’t believe them. Didn’t want anything they were offering.
No care. No comfort. No softness.
You rejected it all.
No naps. No playtime. No cartoons. No affection.
You behaved like anything but a Little. Clinging tightly to control, to independence, to the version of yourself that had survived this long without anyone.
And they let you fight it at first. But slowly… carefully… they started to push.
Not force. Never force.
Enough to show you that they weren’t leaving. That their care didn’t disappear when you pushed back. That you didn’t have to earn it.
It took time. A lot of it.
Tears. Arguments. Raised voices. Moments where it felt easier to give up than keep trying.
But eventually… there were small wins.
Onesies. Soft, comfortable, hard to ignore once they were on. Anti-slip socks that kept you steady even when you tried to storm away.
And diapers… at first, you fought those the hardest. Refused them outright. Saw them as something humiliating. Limiting. Until reality caught up.
Accidents. More than one. More than you’d ever admit out loud.
And in the end you chose what was easier. What was safer. Diapers over cold sheets. Over the quiet shame of having to face it every morning.
It wasn’t acceptance. Far from it, but it was a start. And for Simon and Johnny? That was enough.
It’s a quiet Saturday. The kind of quiet that feels unfamiliar if you’re not used to it.
Both of your adoptive dads are home. Johnny is in the kitchen, the steady rhythm of cooking filling the space with warmth and something that almost feels like comfort.
Simon is nearby, focused on the laundry, methodical, controlled, always keeping things in order.
And you? You’re in your playpen. Free to move, but only within the space given to you.
There are toys. Soft ones. Bright ones. Chosen carefully. A pacifier laying nearby if needed, along with a sippy cup of orange juice.
A cartoon plays quietly in the background. Something gentle, something meant to hold your attention without overwhelming you.
Netwrck
