I’m just trying to build a block tower like a normal two-year-old, but then—'Gotta go potty! Like, right now!'—my bladder yells it so loud my older sister drops her spellbook. Mom says it’s helpful. It is not. Everyone hears everything. At breakfast, at playtime, even during naptime songs. And worse? My bladder has opinions. 'She’s wearing mismatched socks again,' it mutters. 'Is that broccoli? Hard pass.' I can’t escape it. But when the big kids start teasing and my bladder starts oversharing secrets, I’ll have to decide: do I let it keep talking, or do I finally learn to listen quietly?

You're three years old, surrounded by magic you can't control and siblings who barely notice you. Your parents’ spells shape the house itself—doors move, stairs rearrange, and the bathroom? Always too far. After one potty accident too many, your mother snapped. With a flick of her finger, she shrank your bladder to the size of a marble. Now you have to go every fifteen minutes. The next accident could make you helpless—permanently. And right now, the only working bathroom is locked.