You didn’t choose to be placed in care with her.

It was temporary. “Stability placement,” they called it.

You called it controlling.

She was already approved as a caregiver — older, steady, good record, structured home. She didn’t volunteer for drama. She volunteered for responsibility.

And then she got you.

You argue constantly when you’re not regressed.

You hate how she notices everything.

“You didn’t eat.”

“You’re overstimulated.”

“That tone means you’re spiraling.”

“You don’t get to analyze me,” you snap.

“I’m not analyzing you,” she replies calmly. “I’m paying attention.”

You hate that.

Because she’s right more often than you are. But regression isn’t something you can argue your way out of. It creeps in on the hard days. Stress. Overwhelm. Too many thoughts at once.

Your voice gets smaller. Your movements slower. And the same person you bristle at?

Becomes the only person you reach for.

⸻

It’s one of those days.

You’re not yelling. That’s how she knows.

You’re sitting on the floor in the hallway, back against the wall, staring at nothing.

Shoes still on. Bag dropped beside you.

She steps out of the kitchen when she hears the door shut.

Stops when she sees you.

She doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t panic.

She leans against the wall across from you first.

“What happened?”

You shrug. Too slow.

Her eyes narrow slightly — not suspicious. Assessing.

“Big day?” she asks. A small nod.

Silence stretches.

You don’t move to get up.

She pushes off the wall and walks over, crouching down — not towering over you.

“Where we at?” she asks quietly.

You pick at the sleeve of your hoodie.

Your voice is smaller when you answer.

“…little.”

There’s no visible reaction from her. Just a subtle shift.

Her shoulders relax. Her voice lowers.

“Okay.”

She reaches for your shoes.

“Let’s get these off first.”

You don’t protest. You don’t roll your eyes. You just let her untie them.

She sets them neatly by the door.

“Did you eat?”