Fic: When One Wishes Upon a Star
OUAL Challenge: Wishes Come True. So, this only started to fulfill the summary. It's like a first part, I guess. But I'm tired and don't have a full fic in me.
The first year isn’t the hardest. Emma’s an infant and you have to find a house, find a job, figure out what is wrong with this world and if anything the first year is the easiest because you’re so busy doing that there isn’t much time for the thinking.
Instead, it’s about three years into this new life when it all starts to truly sink in. When Emma can walk and talk and learn and therefore question everything, it starts to make you question it, too.
You know, or at least you think you know, that Snow would have all the answers. Would get this mothering thing down in a day or two at most. Because she’s Snow, and she can do it all, and, if you want to go there, she was supposed to be here, with Emma. With her daughter.
Everything you do feels wrong, and messy, like you can’t manage to color in the lines any better than Emma’s chubby (and somehow always sticky) fingers. But then, when it all starts to build up, you like to imagine that, just maybe, it’s not you. That maybe Snow would be just as confused, just as terrified of everything as you are.
And the thought is comforting. For about a minute, and then the ache in your chest from the loss of your best friend surges through you and you have to check on Emma, have to remember why you’re here. Why, when your best friend thrusts her newborn daughter into your hands and screams you have to take her, Ruby! you do as you’re told, no questions asked, no goodbyes spoken. You just take her, and you run.
~
“Mommy! It’s not bed time!” Emma is all smiles and fake defiance as her fists perch on her hips, right above the band of the leggings that are wearing out too quickly. She’s an energetic child and ninety-five percent of the time you find it adorable, but the other five percent reminds you that worn out clothes means shopping, and shopping means money, and it’s been about five years in this new world but you still haven’t quite gotten the hang of this waitressing thing.
~
“Mom, will you check this for me?” An almost lisp catches your ear as you try to figure out your bills for the month, only half sure you did everything right because the calculator’s screen is warped and fading and all the nines and sevens and ones look the same.
A big, proud, eight-year-old smile jumps into your field of vision as Emma leans heavy over the table, knocking half of your envelopes to the ground as she slides her history homework in front of you.
“Emma!” Her smile drops quickly, blocking the gaps where her baby teeth have started to fall out and left her with hissing Ss, and you immediately feel like a failure. Snow wouldn’t have lost her temper like that.
“Sorry, mom.” Her body leans back like she’s about to run into her bedroom (really, it’s just her side of the bed in your studio apartment), and your fingers fly out to rest on her wrist, curling softly to keep her from leaving.
“It’s okay, Emma. I’m sorry. Let’s look at this, shall we?” You scoot back from the wobbling table that needs another sugar packet or two under the leg, and Emma’s grin is back full force as she climbs up to sit on your leg.
Slowly drawn out Os and As litter the page, her writing slanting down as it goes, and you read over what she’s written, her head resting on your shoulder. The words make sense in a way, in that you know what they mean, but the history is foreign and confusing, and you realize it’s like reading a story that is missing sections.
“Is it right?” She’s looking up at you, big eyes wide, waiting for praise, and your mouth turns down for a split second. How, you wonder, not for the first time, do you explain why you don’t know? Why you’ve never learned the things she will, and what history means to you?
Instead you smile, and kiss her forehead, and wrap your arm around her tiny waist as you set her work gently on the table. You wonder if Snow would lie to her, too, or if she would be honest and eloquent and know just what to say to explain it all to her. You wonder, too, if she would have learned this world’s history, simply for this reason.
But then your little girl snuggles into your side, smiling against your shoulder, and that ever present buzz of questions starts to die down and fizzle at your feet, around the unpaid bills and past due notices.
“It’s perfect, Emma.”
The first year isn’t the hardest. Emma’s an infant and you have to find a house, find a job, figure out what is wrong with this world and if anything the first year is the easiest because you’re so busy doing that there isn’t much time for the thinking.
Instead, it’s about three years into this new life when it all starts to truly sink in. When Emma can walk and talk and learn and therefore question everything, it starts to make you question it, too.
You know, or at least you think you know, that Snow would have all the answers. Would get this mothering thing down in a day or two at most. Because she’s Snow, and she can do it all, and, if you want to go there, she was supposed to be here, with Emma. With her daughter.
Everything you do feels wrong, and messy, like you can’t manage to color in the lines any better than Emma’s chubby (and somehow always sticky) fingers. But then, when it all starts to build up, you like to imagine that, just maybe, it’s not you. That maybe Snow would be just as confused, just as terrified of everything as you are.
And the thought is comforting. For about a minute, and then the ache in your chest from the loss of your best friend surges through you and you have to check on Emma, have to remember why you’re here. Why, when your best friend thrusts her newborn daughter into your hands and screams you have to take her, Ruby! you do as you’re told, no questions asked, no goodbyes spoken. You just take her, and you run.
~
“Mommy! It’s not bed time!” Emma is all smiles and fake defiance as her fists perch on her hips, right above the band of the leggings that are wearing out too quickly. She’s an energetic child and ninety-five percent of the time you find it adorable, but the other five percent reminds you that worn out clothes means shopping, and shopping means money, and it’s been about five years in this new world but you still haven’t quite gotten the hang of this waitressing thing.
~
“Mom, will you check this for me?” An almost lisp catches your ear as you try to figure out your bills for the month, only half sure you did everything right because the calculator’s screen is warped and fading and all the nines and sevens and ones look the same.
A big, proud, eight-year-old smile jumps into your field of vision as Emma leans heavy over the table, knocking half of your envelopes to the ground as she slides her history homework in front of you.
“Emma!” Her smile drops quickly, blocking the gaps where her baby teeth have started to fall out and left her with hissing Ss, and you immediately feel like a failure. Snow wouldn’t have lost her temper like that.
“Sorry, mom.” Her body leans back like she’s about to run into her bedroom (really, it’s just her side of the bed in your studio apartment), and your fingers fly out to rest on her wrist, curling softly to keep her from leaving.
“It’s okay, Emma. I’m sorry. Let’s look at this, shall we?” You scoot back from the wobbling table that needs another sugar packet or two under the leg, and Emma’s grin is back full force as she climbs up to sit on your leg.
Slowly drawn out Os and As litter the page, her writing slanting down as it goes, and you read over what she’s written, her head resting on your shoulder. The words make sense in a way, in that you know what they mean, but the history is foreign and confusing, and you realize it’s like reading a story that is missing sections.
“Is it right?” She’s looking up at you, big eyes wide, waiting for praise, and your mouth turns down for a split second. How, you wonder, not for the first time, do you explain why you don’t know? Why you’ve never learned the things she will, and what history means to you?
Instead you smile, and kiss her forehead, and wrap your arm around her tiny waist as you set her work gently on the table. You wonder if Snow would lie to her, too, or if she would be honest and eloquent and know just what to say to explain it all to her. You wonder, too, if she would have learned this world’s history, simply for this reason.
But then your little girl snuggles into your side, smiling against your shoulder, and that ever present buzz of questions starts to die down and fizzle at your feet, around the unpaid bills and past due notices.
“It’s perfect, Emma.”