Tilda stood by the bedside, her face illuminated by the soft morning light, her eyes betraying only a hint of exhaustion from the night before. Arlen lay stomach-down, his face nearly swallowed by the pillow, the lines of sleep still creasing his cheeks. "Time to get up, dear," she chirped, the melody in her voice attempting to smooth over the jagged memories of their argument. Arlen felt a smile flicker, almost in spite of himself, her tone a balm over his pride. Inside, however, resentment bubbled, a silent echo of the words exchanged.

Arlen shifted, his mind replaying Tilda’s biting words—her accusations of laziness, her complaints of endless work. He recalled his own retort, shouted at the ceiling, about the holes in his underwear and the indignity of household dependence. "Sounds like she already forgot our blow-up last night. Imagine her calling me lazy for refusing to get a job, making her work days clerking in that department store, then to come home and cook me dinner, clean house and do the laundry," he thought, his jaw tightening against the pillow. "And I got what you asked me for," Tilda added brightly, her hands folded behind her back, a secret in her eyes.

Arlen remembered his outburst about the state of his underwear, the way he’d sneered at her for neglecting even this small need. "Ah, that would be new underwear. I yelled at her last night that my old underwear had developed holes. And she had the nerve to say I expected her to do everything for me—that she might be better off with a real child at home than a husband who acted like one. Sounds like she wants my forgiveness," he muttered under his breath, a grudging amusement softening his frown.

Arlen blinked, staring at Tilda, who stood exactly as before—her smile broad, her eyes glinting with a secret. He glanced at the package, then at himself, confusion blooming. What had felt like a heavy, adult body now seemed lighter, his limbs shorter, the world suddenly larger. "Those underpants are small enough for a toddler," he grumbled, his voice an octave higher than expected.

Arlen threw back the covers, heart thumping, and stared at the tiny, childlike body beneath. The cartoon underpants, once an insult, now seemed almost too large. "How'd this happen?" he whispered, dread crawling up his spine. Tilda offered no explanation, her silence a gentle but unbreakable wall, her smile as enigmatic as the sun.

Arlen sat frozen, fear and embarrassment warring within him. He remembered Tilda’s angry threat from the night before—sending him to daycare to keep him out of trouble. "I hope Tilda doesn't remember last night, threatening to put me in daycare so I wouldn't dirty the house while she worked. I hate being around kids!" he whined silently, his world shrunken to the size of a child’s worries. Tilda watched him, her lips pressed in a soft, secretive smile, as if she held the answer to a question Arlen could not yet ask.