hours after.
emily sat on the edge of her bed, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting a golden hue over her room. the house was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the baby monitor where she could just barely hear aria’s steady breathing – a sound that had made its way to the top of emily’s comforts. her phone was beside her, screen dark, jj’s name at the top of an unsent message she had typed out and deleted three separate times.
do i tell her? emily chewed the inside of her cheek, her fingers hovering over the keys. the words felt too big to text. too raw.
‘she called me mommy.’
she had been waiting—god, she had been waiting—for so long. every bedtime, every whispered lullaby, every ‘boo-boo’ she kissed, every nightmare she soothed. and then, tonight, just like that… aria said it.
not emmy.
mommy.
emily exhaled sharply and set the phone down, locking it. it wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell jj—jj, who had been the first person she called now when she worried. jj, who had witnessed emily at her absolute most terrified, who had reassured her over and over again that she was more than enough for aria. jj, who signed as a witness.
it was just…this was hers. theirs.
something sacred.
something she needed to sit with for a moment before she shared it with the rest of the world.
emily ran a hand over her face and sighed, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. she had already drained four cups of chamomile tea trying to settle herself down, but her heart still felt like it was sprinting a marathon. she had tried reading—didn’t absorb a single word. she pulled out a case file, thinking maybe that would ground her, pull her focus somewhere else. but it was useless.
her mind was stuck on that moment. the way aria had said it. the way she had looked up at emily with those big, trusting eyes, like it had been the most natural thing in the world.
her chest ached in a way she couldn’t even begin to put words to.
eventually, she gave up on distracting herself and padded down the hall, the wooden floors cool beneath her feet. she stopped in front of aria’s door, resting a hand lightly on the frame before slipping inside. the nightlight cast soft stars along the ceiling, the lavender mist emily had sprayed before bed still lingering faintly in the air. aria was curled up in her crib, pacifier half-out of her mouth, her little fist tucked beneath her cheek.
safe. loved.
emily swallowed around the lump in her throat. she tugged the blanket up a little higher over aria’s small body and brushed a stray curl from her forehead. it hit her all over again. how much she loved this tiny human. how much of her heart, her soul, was stitched into every part of aria’s life now. she could barely pull herself away, but after another long moment, she turned and walked out, back down the hall.
she hesitated when she passed the guest room. jj had slept here. emily stepped inside before she could second-guess it, letting her fingertips brush absently over the now-made bed. the room still smelled faintly of jj’s perfume, like a ghost of a memory that refused to fade.
she sat down on the edge of the mattress, her hands resting on either side of her, grounding herself in the moment. everything felt…so much. aria. mommy. jj. the way she had fit into their life like she belonged there. how much this their house felt even more like home when jj was in it.
how much jj felt like home.
emily exhaled, closing her eyes for a second before pushing herself up. she wasn’t ready to unravel that tonight.
not yet.
emily shifted her weight on the bed, her gaze drifting toward the corner of the room. that damn box. the one she had set there months ago, untouched.
she’d been avoiding it.
it wasn’t that she didn’t know what was inside—she did. she had packed it herself. pieces of a past she wasn’t sure she was ready to face. photos from when she was little, some carrying soft memories, others sharp as glass. pictures of elizabeth. their mother. biologically speaking. and folded on top of it all, a few of aria’s onesies.
emily sighed, running a hand down her face before pushing herself up. maybe tonight’s the night.
she pulled the box onto the floor with her, settling down cross-legged, and opened the lid. the first bit was easier—though it tugged at her heart in ways she didn’t expect. aria’s old onesies, folded carefully. some were from her first year, impossible to part with. the soft pink sleeper she wore the first time she ever reached for emily’s finger. the set with little ducks printed on it, from the phase where aria had been obsessed with making “quack” sounds. emily smiled faintly at that.
then—she swallowed. the newborn onesie. emily ran her thumb over the fabric, thinner from wash but still soft. the tiny cap from the hospital was tucked inside, barely bigger than her palm. she remembered when elizabeth had gone to throw the onesie away one afternoon—“she’s already outgrown it, what’s the point?”—and something in emily had snapped. she had grabbed it from the pile without thinking.
a mother didn’t throw things like this away.
even then, before she knew she would be aria’s mother, her body had known.
she set the onesie aside carefully, pulling out the next stack.
this part? harder. photos of herself as a kid.
some were okay. one of her and matthew, a childhood friend who had passed not too long ago—emily’s chest tightened at that. they were maybe thirteen, both grinning wide, tangled in the limbs of a tree they weren’t supposed to be climbing.
others were worse. her and elizabeth.
emily inhaled sharply as she flipped through them. there was one in particular—a studio portrait, the kind where the photographer told you exactly how to pose. emily was four, stiff in a too-tight dress, hands clasped in her lap. elizabeth beside her, perfect posture, her expression softer than usual but still unreadable.
emily remembered that day. she had been told to sit still. not to fidget. not to mess up her dress. to smile properly. she had smiled. the camera had clicked, and elizabeth had moved on, already checking her watch. emily flipped the photo over and set it aside.
the next ones made her exhale through her nose in something between amusement and disbelief. just her—young, small, untamed.
one of her around aria’s age, standing in a park, hands on her hips, her nose scrunched in determination. her dark hair was just a little wild, her features soft but stubborn. another, of her sitting in a pile of books, one open in her lap, her little mouth moving like she was reading aloud to someone. no one was in the frame, but emily knew she had been — she knew she had been reading outloud to her nanny, who captured most of the photos of emily as a child.
but her features. all she could think of, was aria. she could see her in these pictures. the way her brows pulled together when she was trying to figure something out. the way she pushed her hair behind her ears when she was concentrating. that signature prentiss look of stubborn focus. emily hadn’t even realized a tear had escaped down her cheek until it landed on the corner of an unopened album of film.
she wiped her face quickly, exhaling. she hadn’t touched this one yet. she peeled back the packaging, her fingers brushing over the developed prints. disposable film.the first picture hit her like a punch to the gut.
aria. newborn. tiny.
emily had forgotten about these, somehow. she had taken the film camera she always took with her on her life-changing travels, now with her to the hospital when aria was born. she didn’t even know why she had done it, just like she hadn’t known why she bought the stuffed rabbit.
maybe she hadn’t wanted to be there. but maybe—somewhere deep down—she had also known there should be photos of this baby.
and there they were. a tiny aria, swaddled in the hospital bassinet, her face scrunched up. a nurse holding her in one, elizabeth stiffly to the side. another one of elizabeth holding aria, looking detached – like this was a bump in her schedule.
emily quickly flipped to the next one. it was the only photo of just her and aria. emily wasn’t even looking at the camera – she assumed a nurse in the room must have taken initiative.
she was holding her, staring down at her tiny, blinking face. aria’s fingers were curled tightly around emily’s index finger, impossibly small.
emily had been twenty-six years old when that picture was taken. she had no idea—none—that one day, that tiny baby would call her mommy. she sucked in a breath, running her fingers over the image, her thumb resting over the fragile little fist in the picture. and then—without thinking—she reached for her phone.
she didn’t even question it. her fingers hovered over jj’s name.
she wanted to tell her. she needed to tell her. because if there was anyone in the world who would understand how much this moment meant, it was jj.
jj answered after the second ring, her voice warm and familiar, like the quiet hum of a light left on in a dark room.
“hey, em.”
emily swallowed, blinking a few times as she leaned back against the bed, the old hardwood cool against her bare feet. the photo of her and newborn aria was still in her grasp, her thumb tracing absentmindedly over the edges.
“hey,” she murmured, clearing her throat, trying to keep her voice even.
jj, of course, picked up on it immediately.
“what’s wrong?”
emily exhaled through her nose, shaking her head even though jj couldn’t see her.
“nothing’s wrong.” she hesitated, then corrected herself. “nothing bad.”
there was a pause on the other end of the line, the kind that meant jj was waiting—giving her space to get it out, however she needed to. emily tilted her head back against the bed frame, staring up at the ceiling, blinking the burning tears in her eyes - the smile pulling at her lips betraying the tears.
“she called me mommy.”
silence.
emily could hear the way jj’s breath hitched, like she’d been caught off guard but didn’t want to interrupt.
“she—” emily let out a quiet laugh, her voice thick. “she just said it. i don’t even think she thought about it, she just—” her fingers tightened around the picture. “it happened.”
jj was quiet for another second, then:
“em…” her voice was softer now, almost reverent. “that’s..god, that’s huge. what were you two doing?”
emily huffed a quiet, amused breath, shaking her head. “i was playing piano. she came over and climbed in my lap, and i started playing the song i sing to her every night. she just—she just melted into me, jj.”
the blonde bit her lip, wanting to ask emily since when did she play piano? but now wasn’t the time. she assumed it was just decor in her home. she secretly enjoyed that she continued to find small things out about emily. she was something rare, and emily kept proving that to her.
emily exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “it’s just…” she hesitated, shifting the photo between her fingers. “it’s crazy, you know?”
jj’s voice softened. “yeah.”
“i mean, i knew i was her mom. obviously. but hearing it?” emily shook her head, like it still hadn’t fully settled in. “hearing her say it like it was the easiest thing in the world?” she exhaled, a quiet, breathless laugh escaping. “i don’t know. i wasn’t ready for that.”
jj was quiet for a second, then said, “i think you were more ready than you think.”
emily swallowed, staring at the photograph a little longer.
maybe jj was right.
maybe some part of her had been waiting for this moment all along.
“i just—” emily exhaled, shaking her head. “i didn’t expect it tonight, you know?”
jj hummed. “they do say kids always surprise you.”
emily chuckled. “yeah, no kidding.”
jj’s voice was knowing, gentle. “what are you gonna do now?”
emily blinked, her fingers curling a little tighter around the edges of the photo.
she had no idea.
“i think…” she sighed, running a hand through her hair. “i think i just need to sit with it for a while.”
jj made a soft sound of agreement. “that makes sense.”
there was another pause. but this time, it wasn’t heavy. emily could hear the rustling on jj’s end, the subtle movements as she shifted, probably getting comfortable in bed.
while that was true, jj was also blinking tears from her eyes. happy ones. ones mixed with something she wouldn’t be able to identify for years later.
jj’s voice was softer now. “you did good, em.”
emily’s breath hitched just a little. she swallowed.
“yeah?”
jj nodded, even though emily couldn’t see it. “yeah.”
emily let out a long, slow breath, her shoulders finally—finally—relaxing. she didn’t say thank you. she didn’t have to. jj already knew.
she cleared her throat, shaking her head as she shifted the phone against her ear. “go to sleep, jareau.”
jj chuckled, knowing humor was emily’s way of pushing tears out of her agenda. “only if you promise to try.”
emily smirked. “no promises.”
jj sighed, but there was laughter in it — and a bit of something else. “goodnight, emily.”
emily let out one last exhale, glancing down at the picture again, the warmth settling a little deeper in her chest.
“goodnight, jen.”
she hung up, but she didn’t move just yet. instead, she let the quiet settle around her. she let the word echo in her head again.
mommy.
her chest tightened in the best way. she traced over aria’s tiny fingers in the photo one last time, then finally—finally—set it down on the nightstand. she stood, stretched, and shut off the lamp. and for the first time all night, she let herself breathe. to settle into the new.