baby birds.
the begining of summer means longer days, which, in aria’s mind, means she should still be awake. emily had learned this quickly, adapting to the way aria equated daylight with playtime, adjusting her own strategies to wear her down naturally instead of fighting against the inevitable. so here they were—on a walk. because if emily has learned one thing after being thrust into full blown ‘mommy mode’ - its that toddlers and time change, do not mix. however, she patiently deals with it.
the sky is still soft blue, the golden hues of the sun stretching low against the horizon, painting everything in that warm, honeyed glow that only late summer evenings bring. aria’s tiny feet pad along the sidewalk, her little fingers wrapped around emily’s hand as she bounces slightly with each step, still full of that endless toddler energy.
emily, for all her exhaustion, enjoys this.
because watching aria explore the world is something she never knew would bring her so much joy. every walk they take is a new adventure, a chance for aria to discover something she’s seen a hundred times before but never really noticed.
tonight is no different.
she stops at every crack in the pavement, pointing them out like they were important landmarks.
“a’line, emmy!” she exclaims, pointing with full excitement.
“yep, bug, that’s a line,” emily nods, amused.
aria steps over it, very deliberately, and nods approvingly at herself.
small victories.
they keep walking, aria pausing every so often to crouch down and inspect tiny ants making their way across the sidewalk. the was she squats, like all wobbly toddlers do, always makes emily laugh.
“they go home?” she asks, eyes wide.
“yeah, baby, they’re going home to their little ant families.”
aria hums, seemingly satisfied with this answer.
until—
they reach a low bush, where aria suddenly stops short, her hand tightening slightly in emily’s.
her big brown eyes lock onto something, her little brows pulling together in concern.
“oh nos.”
the words are soft, but urgent, and it immediately pulls emily’s attention.
“what’s wrong, bug?” emily asks, crouching slightly, following aria’s gaze.
and then she sees it— a tiny baby bird, nestled alone in a small, woven nest, barely visible through the leaves of the bush. its fluffy body is still, its tiny beak closed, its eyes wide and blinking, waiting.
aria points, her lip wobbling just slightly.
“baby a’wone.”
her voice is small, filled with deep concern, the kind of worry that only someone so pure, so gentle-hearted, so naturally empathetic could have. emily’s heart clenches, because aria doesn’t know anything about birds, doesn’t know how they function, doesn’t know how nature works—
but she knows loneliness. or at least, she recognizes what looks like it.
“no mommy?” aria’s voice wobbles, her big brown eyes flicking to emily, like she’s looking to her for reassurance.
emily swallows, crouching down fully now, meeting aria at her level.
“oh, bug,” she murmurs, smoothing a hand over aria’s curls.
aria sniffs, staring at the tiny bird, her free hand clutching at emily’s shirt, like she needs grounding.
“baby waitin’,” she whispers, as if she’s figured something out, but it only makes her lip wobble more.
emily softens, brushing her thumb across aria’s cheek.
“baby isn’t alone, sweetheart,” she tells her gently. “mommy bird went to go get food. she’ll be back soon. she knows her baby is safe here in the nest while she’s gone.”
aria’s brows tug together again, her little mind working through it.
“she come back?”
emily nods.
“always, baby.”
emily doesn’t want, nor feel the need to tell aria that no - sometimes tragedies do happen. sometimes mommy birds do not come back. because that’s simply not the point of this lesson. its to tell aria, that mommies do not leave their babies. even though theirs, just signed her over and aria has no idea. even though theirs didn’t glance at emily half of the time growing up. because she? was legally, aria’s mother now. and emily? was not a mother, who left. aria would not grow up, thinking that was a normal thing.
aria blinks, looking at the baby bird again. her little fingers fidget slightly, before— she reaches out, just the tiniest bit, her hand hovering in the air, like she wants to give the bird comfort somehow.
but she doesn’t touch. doesn’t disturb. just watches.
emily lets her sit with it, lets her process it the way she needs to, lets her see that the baby bird isn’t really alone. aria finally sniffs one last time, her little shoulders relaxing slightly, and she looks back up at emily.
“we go now?”
“yeah, bug,” emily whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
aria nods, small but sure, slipping her hand back into emily’s. and as they keep walking, emily glances down at her, at the way she’s still thinking, processing, the way she keeps looking back toward the bush like she’s making sure the baby is still okay.
and emily knows—
she knows this isn’t the last time aria will care too deeply.
emily knows this won’t be the last time aria worries for something small, something fragile, something that reminds her of the parts of herself that still seek comfort, still need warmth, still long for the knowledge that someone will always come back.
but emily also knows— she will always be the one to answer aria’s questions, to ease her worries, to remind her that she is never, ever alone. to remind her that mommy birds always come back.
their walk is slow, easy, filled with the kind of comfortable quiet that only happens between two people who belong to each other. aria’s tiny hand stays wrapped in emily’s, her grip loose but steady, her little feet pattering along the pavement in a slightly uneven rhythm, still too small to walk with full control but determined nonetheless. her curls are wild from the breeze, and her little face is still pinched in deep thought, her lips pursed slightly, like she’s trying to piece something together.
emily has learned to recognize that look.
aria is thinking. which means the questions are coming. and sure enough—
“emmy?”
“yeah, baby?” emily hums, glancing down at her, already bracing for whatever is about to come next.
aria fidgets slightly, twisting her fingers around emily’s as she works through the thought in her head, then—
“baby bird get milk?”
emily blinks, caught off guard, before she quickly catches on. aria knows what it means to be taken care of. in her little world, being a baby means snuggles, bedtime songs, warm bottles, soft blankets, and the certainty that someone is always there. of course, she would assume the same for the baby bird.
emily squeezes her hand gently, keeping her voice soft, patient.
“oh, no, baby. baby birds don’t drink milk like you do. their mommy brings them little bugs to eat.”
aria’s eyes widen immediately, her tiny nose scrunching in sheer horror, her mouth falling open slightly.
“bugs?”
her voice pitches higher, like she’s never heard something more offensive in her entire life.
“bugs,” emily confirms with a small nod, fighting back laughter.
aria stares at her, completely scandalized.
“no noodles?”
emily actually laughs this time, shaking her head.
“no, baby. no noodles.”
aria huffs, her little shoulders lifting with full dramatic effect, clearly deeply unimpressed with the bird world’s lack of proper dining options.
“baybee needs noodles.”
“i know, bug,” emily hums, amused by how certain she is. “but baby birds like bugs. it’s good for them.”
aria is still not convinced, but she accepts it for now, shifting slightly as her mind moves to the next thought.
“baybee has blankie?”
emily tilts her head, glancing down at her.
“hmm?”
aria looks up, serious, her little brow furrowed, her free hand clutching the hem of her own shirt, like she’s already thinking about how important softness is.
“for sweepin’,” she clarifies, as if this should be obvious.
“ohhh,” emily hums, playing along, because she knows this is serious business. “no, baby birds don’t have blankies. but their nest is soft. their mommy makes sure it’s comfy for them to sleep in.”
aria considers this, running her little fingers over her own sleeve, like she’s imagining what the nest feels like.
then—
“mama bird sing song?”
her voice is quieter this time, her tiny fingers twisting slightly into emily’s hand, the kind of thoughtful question that makes emily’s chest ache in the best way.
“you mean, like a lullaby?” emily asks softly.
aria nods once, small but so sure, fully expecting an answer. emily thinks for a moment, adjusting her grip on aria’s tiny hand.
“well,” she muses, “not exactly like the songs you and i sing. but mama birds do sing, baby. they chirp to their babies, and their babies know their voices. it’s how they know they’re safe.”
aria is silent, letting that sink in, processing the idea. but then—
“they watch boo’s coos?”
emily actually stops walking for half a second, caught between pure amusement and realizing how deep aria is into this baby birds life, and how she thinks that it watches blue’s clues, like her.
“hmm?” she asks, as if she didn’t hear correctly.
aria tilts her head, her curls bouncing slightly.
“boo’s coos,” she repeats seriously, blinking up at emily like this is a very real possibility. “baybee watch?”
and god—emily loves her so much.
“i don’t think birds watch tv, baby,” she murmurs, squeezing her hand, fighting back a grin.
aria frowns slightly, clearly not thrilled with this answer.
“no?”
“no, bug,” emily confirms. “no blue’s clues for baby birds.”
aria blows out a tiny sigh, deeply unimpressed, shaking her head like she feels bad for the bird now.
“not fair,” she mumbles.
emily presses a kiss to the top of her head, still smiling, because— god, this child. she is so pure, so open, so full of gentle empathy. she truly believes that baby birds should have warm milk and soft blankies and bedtime songs and their own tiny television sets playing blue’s clues before bed.
and fuck—if that isn’t the kind of heart emily hopes she always keeps.
“ready to go home, baby?” she asks softly, as the sky begins to shift into deeper twilight blues, the first hints of stars peeking through.
aria hums, her voice a little slower now, sleep creeping in at the edges.
“we go home.”
emily can see her townhouse in the distance, the familiar shape of it standing against the horizon, the soft glow of the porch light already on—welcoming, steady, home. she had turned them around a bit ago to start their journey back - but she likes to let aria think shes making the decision. aria’s steps are slowing, her little legs starting to feel the weight of the evening, but she’s determined as ever, still moving forward, still holding onto that newfound independence she’s so proud of.
emily watches as her tiny steps grow smaller, her blinks longer, her grip on emily’s hand loosening just slightly, and she knows.
“you wanna be carried the rest of the way, baby?” emily asks softly, already prepared to scoop her up the second she nods.
but, as always— aria shakes her head, polite and certain, her tiny voice quiet but unwavering.
“no fanks.”
emily smiles, because of course.
aria has always been like this—small but fiercely independent, soft but strong-willed, the kind of child who wants to do things her way, in her time. so, emily just adjusts her grip on aria’s tiny hand, slowing her own pace to match aria’s, letting her keep that little bit of control. as they walk, aria’s fingers start to fidget slightly, twisting into the hem of her sleeve, her little brows furrowing again, and emily knows.
the questions aren’t done yet.
“emmy?”
“yeah, baby?”
aria’s voice is softer now, sleep starting to pull at the edges, but her mind is still turning, still processing everything.
“mommy birds miss babies when go ‘way?”
emily’s chest tightens instantly, because of course aria would ask that. aria already knows babies must miss their mommies, because she misses emily when she’s away. she doesn’t even know that emily is mom now. but she knows moms are safe. and emily? is safe. shes aria’s safe.
emily doesn’t answer right away, just squeezes aria’s hand a little tighter, taking a slow breath, letting the question settle between them before answering.
“yeah, baby,” she murmurs, voice soft, sure. “mommy birds miss their babies when they go find food. but they know they have to go, so their babies can eat and grow strong. and they always come back.”*
aria nods, slow and thoughtful, her free hand fidgeting slightly against the sleeve of her pajama top. emily watches her process it, sees the way her little mouth purses in concentration, the way her eyes flick to the sidewalk like she’s trying to piece something together. and then—aria tilts her head, blinking up at emily with wide, curious eyes.
“nest like ‘cool?”
it takes emily half a second to realize what she means.
school. aria’s daycare.
emily always calls it school, always tells aria she’s going to school to play and learn, always says she’ll come pick her up right after work. emily’s heart clenches as she watches aria’s wheels turn again, sees her little mind connecting the dots between the baby bird waiting in the nest and her waiting at school for emily to come back. like how she waits by the door half the day, watching, waiting, knowing emily will come back but still missing her anyway.
“yeah, baby,” emily breathes, blinking hard, keeping her voice steady. “the nest is kind of like school.”
aria nods once, her face serious, like she’s putting the last piece of the puzzle in place. and emily? she feels everything at once. this small, soft moment where aria is figuring out the world, learning how to name the things she feels. she wants to say something else, to reassure her even more, but aria’s little voice cuts through the quiet again before she gets the chance.
“you come back ‘ways.”
not a question. a statement. one aria is completely certain about. one that settles something deep in emily’s chest, because aria knows. she knows emily will always come back. emily nods, pressing a soft kiss into aria’s wild curls, letting her lips linger against the warmth of her tiny head.
“always.”
as they get closer to the townhouse, emily glances down at both of them, noticing their matching disheveledness from the walk. aria is in her pajamas, soft cotton ones with a little star pattern, the footed parts pulled up slightly at the ankles, her tiny converse laces wrapped snugly around them - emily has learned that after walks, aria crashes hard. so having her ready for bed? is a pro.
emily is in sweats and an old sweatshirt, her sleeves pushed up, her hair messy from the wind, looking every bit like someone who has spent the las few months in functional exhaustion, but wouldn’t trade it for anything.
aria lets out a tiny sigh, one of those content, sleepy ones, her fingers loosening slightly around emily’s. she’s tired now, her little legs finally wearing out, but she’s still holding on, still walking, still making her way home on her own terms. and emily? she just lets her.
because, god— this child. her child. this little thing that wasn’t supposed to be hers, but is. this little thing that has learned the world by learning her, that connects everything back to her, that trusts in her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
emily lets aria’s tiny fingers curl into hers one last time, and as they step up onto the porch, she leans down, pressing another kiss to her curls.
“ready to go inside, bug?”
aria hums, barely awake now, blinking up at her with the softest, sleepiest nod.
emily sees the way aria’s little shoulders sag, the way her blinks are getting slower, her tiny legs swaying slightly, sleep pulling at her now. she doesn’t ask this time, just scoops her up, her hands settling naturally under aria’s little legs and around her back, lifting her with ease.
and aria? she doesn’t protest. doesn’t insist on walking the last few steps herself, doesn’t mumble her usual “no fanks”. she just lets out a soft huff of air, her little body curling against emily’s chest, her arms tucking in close, her fingers clutching loosely at the fabric of emily’s sweatshirt. the trust of it—the absolute certainty in being carried, in being held—settles something deep in emily’s chest.
inside, the house is quiet, familiar, the air still carrying the faint scent of laundry detergent and the lavender spray emily uses on aria’s sheets before bed. emily moves through the motions without thinking—to the fridge, to the top shelf, to the bottle of milk that’s waiting there, just like always.
she should probably start weaning her from this. should probably switch to cups only, cut out the bedtime bottle like the books say. but tonight? not tonight. not yet. she doesn’t think she has it in her to take away one of the last little baby habits aria still holds onto.
aria barely stirs as emily carries her upstairs, just a small hitch in her breath, a soft, sleepy little sigh as emily eases her down into her bed, gently tucking the blankets up to her chin.
her bunny is already there, nestled in the crook of her pillow, waiting for her. emily brushes a few stray curls from her forehead, then hands over the bottle— and aria takes it immediately, her little hands curling around it, her lips latching onto the rubber nipple with instinctive familiarity, her tiny, exhausted hum of contentment filling the space between them.
emily smiles, settling onto the edge of the bed, rubbing soft circles over aria’s belly, whispering the same goodnight words she always does.
”goodnight, baby, i love you so much. there is a whole new day, waiting for you tomorrow..”
aria’s eyes droop, but she listens, still clinging to wakefulness, still watching emily through heavy lashes.
“the moon’s gonna keep watch over you while you sleep, and the sun is gonna be so excited to see you in the morning.”
aria’s little fingers twitch slightly, like she wants to hold on to something but can’t quite find the energy to reach. emily just keeps rubbing her belly, slow and warm, the white noise machine humming softly in the background.
aria sucks quietly on the bottle, her breathing settling, her body fully relaxing into the mattress.
but then— she pauses. her tiny lips pull away, just barely, the bottle tilting slightly in her grip. her voice is so soft, barely audible over the steady hum of white noise, but emily hears it.
“emmy like mommy bird.”
emily’s breath catches in her throat. aria doesn’t explain. doesn’t need to, because emily already knows what she means.
she’s missed. when she’s gone. but she always—always—comes back.
emily swallows, feeling her chest tighten, then loosen all at once, like something inside her is settling into place. she leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to aria’s forehead.
“yeah, baby,” she whispers against her skin, voice thick with something she doesn’t quite have words for.
“just like mommy bird.”
aria hums, satisfied. and this time, when she closes her eyes— she doesn’t fight sleep at all.