summary: After an intense week, your daughter is clingy towards you.
warnings: talk of sickness, Robby is mentioned.
note: the most mentioned thing about “Pretty Girl” was our beloved Gila…so here is more of her.
You’d been feeling unwell for several days. Nausea, fatigue, and a mild stomach ache. You attributed it to Gila being sick a few days ago.
You were lying on bed when Gila stomped into the bedroom. Lately, she was obessed with being by your side 24/7, which caused her to throw scenes every morning before going to school or when she had a soccer practice. She was obviously your wife’s daughter. She was wearing her Bluey’s pink pajamas with her capybara-shaped slippers, the ones she insisted she wanted because they looked a lot like her mama. Emery denied the resemblance, so Abbot bought them just to annoy her.
You let out a small sigh when you saw her wearing her toy doctor kit. She had insisted she wanted one for her birthday to match her aunties and uncles. And like the whipped mother she was, Emery bought it.
Gila glanced at you and smiled, her eyes shining.
“You are so pretty, Mommy.” the little girl said sweetly, but then she frowned again. “I mean... Good afternoon, Mrs. Mommy.”
You let out a small giggle, which caused a tiny smile to appear on your daughter’s face, though she quickly wiped it away to put on her best serious expression.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Walsh.” you whispered, trying to forget how much your body hurt.
“I’m here to cure you.” Gila announced harshly, stepping closer to you. “Don’t worry, Mommy, it's me. I’m just talking like Uncle Robby.”
You looked at her with a dopey smile.
“Open your mouth, stick out your tongue.” the girl ordered as she took an otoscope out of her backpack.
“I don’t think that’s for the mouth.”
Gila shot you a look, proving she was truly Emery’s twin. “Are you the doctor, or am I?”
“Sorry doc.”
Gila scowled, muttering about how rude patients had become in recent years, and how in her forty years as a doctor, she had never seen such a bad patient. “If you keep still, I will give you some chocolate that Mama has hidden behind the cookie jar.”
You looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Mama has a what hidden?”
“Oopsies.” Gila muttered. “Open your mouth.”
She observed your mouth with a serious look, muttering some incomprehensible words.
“What do you see, Dr. Walsh?”
“It's very obvious.” she started solemnly. “I have never seen anything like this.”
“Tell me what i have, I’m dying?” you asked dramatically.
“Mommy, no!” Gila said, a little too loudly. “You are pregnant. I saw three kids.”
You froze. “I am what? I have what?”
“Three babies.” She jumped on top of you, putting three kisses on your stomach. “But you can get better. You just have to give me kisses.”
“So that’s your game, eh?” you started to tickle her. “You lied to Mommy just so you could get kisses.”
Gila laughed, squirming around as she tried to escape your grip. You showered her face in kisses, causing her to kick her legs to get away. But when her little leg made contact with your stomach, you let out a sharp groan, making Gila stop with a worried frown.
“Mommy?” She asked with her lip wibbling.
You didn’t answer at first. Your hand went automatically to your stomach as you groaned; the pain was so sudden and intense, it felt as though a bunch of cars had just run right through you.
Gila’s eyes widened with genuine panic as she scrambled off the bed, her toy stethoscope clattering to the floor. "Mommy? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to kick the babies!"
Despite the throbbing ache in your abdomen, a soft, breathless laugh squeezed out of you. "It’s okay, sweetie. You didn't hurt any babies. Mommy just has a really bad tummy ache."
Before Gila could offer another apology, the heavy click of the front door unlocking echoed from the hallway, followed by the familiar call of your wife.
“Mama!” Gila called out, her little voice full of worry.
A moment later, Emery appeared in the doorway, her jacket half-unbuttoned and a look of concern. She took in the scene: you clutching your stomach, the scattered plastic doctor tools, and Gila standing there looking like she’d just been caught sneaking to the kitchen to eat cookies.
“What's going on in here?" Emery asked, immediately walking over to press the back of her cool hand against your forehead. "You look pale. Did Dr. Walsh here give you a bad prognosis?”
“Mama!" Gila interrupted, pointing a dramatic finger at you. "Mommy is broken, I hurted the babies.”
Emery froze, her hand pausing halfway to your forehead. She chuckled softly, assuming it was just another one of Gila's imaginative games. “Babies? Did Dr. Walsh perform an ultrasound today?”
“I saw three!” Gila insisted, her lower lip trembling as she looked at you, still clutching your stomach. “But then I kicked her tummy by mistake. I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“It’s okay, sweetie, you didn't hurt anything.”you managed to breathe out, though the deep, pulling ache in your abdomen made it hard to catch your breath. You forced a reassuring smile for your daughter, but internally, your mind was whirring. “Mommy is just sick. She is with nausea and some fati-“
In that moment, everything clicked for you.
The word died in your throat. Nausea. Fatigue. The mild, constant stomach ache you had spent days blaming on Gila’s school bug. Your hand, still pressed against your stomach, suddenly felt incredibly warm.
Months ago. The sterile clinic room. The quiet, the nervous whispers between you and Emery. The IVF transfer. In the absolute whirlwind of the weeks that followed; juggling Gila's soccer schedule, your wife’s killer night shifts, your chaotic work deadlines, and the subconscious fear of getting your hopes up. Some how you and Emery had completely forgot the whole thing. You had torture yourself up for the possibility of a negativo result that your brain had simply locked the memory away.
You weren't fighting off a stomach flu.
Your eyes snapped up, locking onto Emery. The playful, teasing smirk on your wife’s face now replaced by confusion.
“Hey.” Emery murmured, sitting on the edge of the mattress and taking your free hand. “What is it? You look like you just saw a ghost. Or worse, Abbot without a shirt.”
You swallowed hard, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. “Em… when did we… when were we supposed to check?”
Emery blinked, her mind frantically trying to bridge between your current stomach ache and what you meant by check. Then, all at once, her entire posture went rigidly still.
Emery’s mouth fell open, her eyes darting from your face down to your hand on your stomach. “No. No way. The transfer was… oh my god, it was months ago.”
“We completely forgot.” you whispered, a breathless, tearful laugh bubbling up. “Emery, I’m not sick.”
“Wait…” Emery stammered, her hands starting to shake as she gripped yours tighter. “You thought you caught Gila’s bug!”
“I did!” you said, your heart racing. “But it’s not a bug. It’s… it’s the...”
Gila looked between the two of you, her little eyebrows furrowed in deep confusion. “Is Mommy still broken?”
Emery instantly dropped to her knees by the bed, pulling Gila into her side while keeping her eyes locked on yours. Leaving a kiss in the little girl’s curls. “No, sweetie. Mommy isn't broken at all.”
“So…” Gila puffed out her chest, pointing her plastic otoscope at you. “Dr. Walsh was right? There are three babies in there?”
Emery let out a watery laugh, looking up at you with wide, emotional eyes. “Well, I don't know about three, Dr. Walsh. But you might have just made the biggest medical discovery of our lives.”
“Three!” Gila clapped her hands, jumping up and down on the bedroom rug. “I knew it! My doctor eyes see everything.”
Emery laughed, wiping a tear from her cheek before looking back at you. “Three might be too much, doc. Let's start with a pregnancy test first.”
“No, they need names right now.” Gila insisted, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Since I’m their older sister I want to name them Bluey, Bingo, and Muffin.”
You groaned playfully, leaning back against the pillows. “Sweetie, those are cartoon dogs.”
“Okayyy. What about Elsa, Anna, and Honeymaren?”
Emery snorted, trying and failing to hide her laughter behind her hand. “I love how she only says girls names.”
“Of course!” Gila said confidently, crossing her arms stubbornly. “We are all girls. Why would we want boys in the family? It’s dumb, duh.”
You shot Emery a sharp look. “See? She is a little you. She hates men.”
“I don’t hate boys, i have a boyfriend.” Gila piped up as a sudden blush crept over her cheeks.
You and Emery both froze, your eyes locking for a fraction of a second before you both snapped your heads around to look at your daughter.
“You have a what?” Emery asked, her voice dropping an octave as her protective mama instincts instantly kicking.
“A boyfriend.” Gila repeated casually, playing with the tubing of her plastic stethoscope. “His name is Carter. He sits with me during reading time and he shares his crackers with me.”
