Page 10 of Daddy Next Door

We settled into his living room, me on the couch, him in the armchair. The cookies sat on the coffee table between us, still untouched.

"What about you? Getting settled into the new practice?" I asked, cradling the warm mug between my palms.

"Slowly but surely." He took a sip of coffee. "I've been doing mostly assessment sessions this week, getting to know new clients."

"That must be interesting—meeting new people, hearing their stories."

Something in his expression shifted, became more animated. "It's fascinating, actually. One of the things I love most about my job is seeing how people present themselves initially versus who they really are once they feel safe enough to show you."

I tensed slightly, wondering if somehow he knew about my voyeuristic moment, but his expression remained open, unaccusing.

"What do you mean?" I asked, taking a cookie to give my hands something to do.

"Most people come in with what I call their 'public self'—the version they think is acceptable or impressive," he explained, leaning forward slightly. "But underneath, there's usually this whole other authentic self they're protecting. My job is creating a space where they feel safe enough to let that hidden self be seen."

His words resonated somewhere deep inside me. I thought of my carefully maintained professional persona versus my little side—the part of me that colored with crayons and slept with stuffed animals.

"I had a client recently," he continued, "professional woman, very put-together, who revealed she collects toy trains. Has an entire room in her basement dedicated to this elaborate model railroad setup. She'd never told anyone because she thought people would find it childish or weird."

"Did you think it was weird?" I asked, hearing the tension in my own voice.

His eyes met mine directly. "Not at all. I thought it was beautiful that she had this creative outlet, this thing that brought her joy. Too many adults deny themselves pleasure because they're worried about appearing childish."

Something warm unfurled in my chest. "That's . . . a refreshing perspective."

"We all have parts of ourselves we hide because we fear judgment," he said, finally taking a cookie himself. "But those hidden parts are often where our true joy lives."

The conversation felt weighted with meaning beyond the words themselves. Was he speaking generally, or did he somehow sense something about me? It seemed impossible, yet his gentle eyes held a knowing quality that made me wonder.

"Do you have clients who are . . ." I paused, searching for a way to ask without revealing too much. "Who regress? As a coping mechanism?"

He nodded, expression professionally neutral but not dismissive. "Age regression can be a perfectly healthy coping mechanism for some people. Our society puts enormous pressure on adults to always be 'on,' always responsible. Finding safe ways to experience freedom from those expectations can be healing."

My hands trembled slightly around my mug. If he noticed, he didn't comment.

"That's good to know," I managed, voice casual despite my racing heart. "I've read about that online."

He bit into his cookie, eyes widening with appreciation. "These are excellent, by the way."

"Thanks. My grandmother's recipe." I welcomed the change of subject. "Extra vanilla is the secret."

We chatted about baking for a few minutes, the conversation flowing easily. Then he glanced at his watch and sighed.

"I hate to cut this short, but I have some preparation to do. I'm attending a conference in Chicago next weekend—leaving Friday morning, back late Sunday."

"Oh? What kind of conference?" I asked, setting my empty mug down.

"About survivors of PTSD, actually. I'm presenting a paper on play therapy techniques." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I'd noticed he made when shifting topics. "I'm a bit concerned about leaving the house, to be honest. My security system isn't fully set up yet."

"I could keep an eye on the place," I offered, the words out before I'd fully considered them. "I work from home, so I'm here most of the time anyway."

Relief softened his features. "That would be incredible, Lily. Are you sure it's not too much trouble?"

"Not at all. What are neighbors for?"

"I'd feel much better knowing you were watching things." He seemed genuinely grateful. "I'll leave a spare key, just in case of emergency. There's a loose brick on the side of the porch steps—perfect hiding spot."

"Sounds good," I said, standing to take my mug to the kitchen. "Anything specific you need me to do besides keeping an eye out?"

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