the bathroom is warm, steam curling in lazy tendrils around the edges of the bathroom mirror, blurring the outside world away. the overhead light had been dimmed, the soft flicker of a lavender-scented candle casting a golden glow over the water. emily exhales slowly, sinking deeper into the warmth, her muscles unwinding after a long day - her dark hair tossed on top of her head.
in front of her, nestled snugly against her chest, is aria.
her daughter had been fussy all evening—overtired, overstimulated, caught somewhere between frustration and the simple exhaustion of being two. when nothing else soothed her, emily had scooped her up and stepped into the bath, cradling her against her skin. it had always worked when aria was a newborn; so emily continued the soothing tactic as she grew.
now, her tiny body is slack with contentment, fingers trailing absentmindedly through the warm water - poking a bubble or two here and there. the only sounds are the faint drip of the faucet, tiny droplets hitting the bath drawn below - and the occasional sleepy hum from aria as she shifts against emily’s chest.
it’s moments like these—quiet, intimate, unguarded—that undo emily the most. that make her feel bare, not physically - but emotionally. there were no walls up. no one to protect herself from. only love, and admiration.
aria, still curled against her, was fascinated by everything she can see, everything she can touch. she doesn’t have the reservations of adulthood, the self-consciousness that creeps in over time. she simply explores.
her small fingers press into emily’s cheek, tracing the curve of her jaw, the slope of her nose. she touches her lips next, fascinated by the way they move when emily presses a kiss to her fingertips - which always gained the smallest smile even when aria was drowsy from the day.
then, she moves downward, her small hands resting on emily’s throat, a few of her fingertips gently brushing the skin.
emily stays still, letting her lead.
tiny hands skim over the hollow of her collarbone, over faint scars and freckles. aria finds her chest, her palm resting over emily’s heart - the familiar beat she that calmed her most nights. then, lower still, pressing curiously against the swell of her breast, against the stretch marks of aging and being a mother. her fingers poked at a small beauty mark above her left nipple.
aria’s lips part in quiet fascination. her voice is soft, but full of certainty.
“p’etty.”
emily stills.
the word is so simple. so innocent. but it knocks the breath from her lungs.
pretty.
not tired, not aging, not too much or not enough. not the flaws she picks apart in the mirror, not the parts of herself she’s spent years trying to unlearn. just—pretty.
she blinks hard, her throat tightening.
the world has a way of breaking down women. of making them feel small, or unworthy, or never quite right. emily has spent most of her life fighting against that, but some battles never really end.
but this—seeing herself through aria’s eyes—heals something in her.
because aria doesn’t see the imperfections emily agonizes over. she doesn’t see the years of self-doubt, or the way emily sometimes feels like she’s constantly catching up, continually trying to be enough.
she just sees mama. her mama.
just sees warmth, and safety, and love.
to aria, that was pretty. mama, was pretty.
emily swallows, blinking back the sting in her eyes as she cups the back of aria’s head, pressing a kiss to her damp blonde hair she got from jj.
“you think so?” she murmurs, voice thick.
aria nods, sleep-heavy and sure.
“p’etty,” she says again, resting her cheek against emily’s chest, her tiny fingers curling over her skin like she’s holding something precious.
she’s pretty. shes pretty to the one who matters most to her, best of all.
emily exhales, a slow and steady breath, as she lets aria’s words settle deep in her bones. pretty.
not powerful. not capable. not intimidating or strong or any of the other words people have used to describe her over the years. just pretty. soft in a way she has never allowed herself to be.
she closes her eyes, resting her chin lightly against the top of aria’s damp blonde strands she inherited from jj. the toddler sighs in contentment, shifting her tiny body even closer, her arms resting against emily’s chest, her fingers still tracing gentle, absentminded shapes against her skin.
emily wonders if she was ever this safe.
if she was ever held like this, skin to skin, completely loved without expectation or conditions.
she doesn’t know for sure, but she has a hunch.
no, she wasn’t.
she doesn’t remember her mother holding her this way. doesn’t remember hands that comforted instead of pushed, that soothed instead of corrected.
but she remembers the longing.
she remembers being small and unsure, desperate for a kind of love she never quite received. she remembers vowing, even when she was too young to understand it fully, that the small baby dolls she played quietly with, would never question how deeply they were loved. the older she got, that vow shifted to the idea if she ever had children.
and now, here she is.
holding the safest, purest thing she has ever known.
her throat tightens again, but this time, it’s not sadness. it’s something quieter. something softer.
healing.
she presses another kiss to aria’s head, closing her eyes for a moment, letting herself simply be.
aria hums under her breath, shifting slightly so she can look up at emily again. her eyes are still wide, still full of wonder as she reaches out once more, running a tiny, chubby hand over emily’s shoulder.
“mama.. p’etty,” she repeats, more insistent now, like she wants, no - needs, emily to understand.
emily lets out a breathless laugh, blinking away the dampness threatening her eyes.
“you’re pretty too, baby,” she murmurs, brushing her fingers against aria’s cheek, tracing the curve of her tiny nose, her round cheeks, her dark eyes that mirror emily’s so completely. "the most pretty."
she thought aria was the prettiest thing that walked this earth. how could she call herself ugly in any fashion, when the child that mirrored her so beautifully was the best thing in this world to her.
aria giggles lightly - sleepily, nuzzling into emily’s touch before resting her head against her again, her little hands finally going still as sleep starts to pull at her. aria knew she was safe, loved, and pretty.
emily made sure of it.
emily holds her close, rocking her gently in the water, letting the warmth cradle her skin.
and for the first time in a long, long time, she doesn’t think about the scars, the stretch marks, the aging or the weird things she inherited from her family that she didn’t like growing up. she doesn’t think about the ways the world has tried to shape her, the ways she has fought against it.
she only thinks about this.
the weight of her daughter in her arms. the small, steady breaths against her skin. the soft echoes of a single word that has never meant more than it does right now.
p’etty.
and for once, emily believes it. truly. how could she not?