Sophie’s POV
Dad and Emma arrive at two PM, and the apartment immediately feels too small. Eleanor is upstairs in her room, still recovering from the confrontation with Lolita this morning.
Bellamy maintains his post near the kitchen, trying to give us privacy while still doing his job. And now Dad and Emma are here, examining my life with the careful assessment of people determining whether intervention is necessary.
I watch Dad's face as he takes in the domestic scene. His eyes sweep across the living room—noting the baby swing in the corner, the scattered toys we haven't put away, the bottles drying on the kitchen counter visible through the doorway.
Then his gaze settles on me, and I see him cataloging details. The circles under my eyes. The way my clothes hang looser than they should. The brittleness I'm trying to hide behind a smile that feels painted on.
He's assessing whether his daughter is okay. Whether Adrian is treating me right. Whether this situation is survivable or if I need rescuing.
"The apartment is nice," Emma says, filling the awkward silence. She's always been good at that—smoothing over tension, creating space for conversation when Dad goes quiet and analytical.
"Thank you." I gesture toward the couch. "Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? We have…"
"We're fine, sweetheart." Dad's voice is gentle but his eyes are still doing that assessment thing that makes me feel transparent. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm managing." The automatic response. The lie everyone tells because the truth is too complicated.
Dad exchanges a look with Emma. Then he turns to where Adrian has appeared in the doorway, clearly summoned by the sound of guests arriving.
"Adrian, could we talk? Privately?" Dad's tone makes it clear this isn't really a question.
Adrian's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Of course. My study is this way."
The two men disappear down the hallway. The study door closes with a soft click that somehow sounds ominous.
My anxiety spikes immediately. I know what this conversation is about—marriage, commitment, whether Adrian has serious intentions beyond just cohabitating and co-parenting.
Dad asking the questions he thinks a father should ask, negotiating my future like I'm property being transferred from one owner to another instead of a grown woman capable of making my own decisions.
I strain to hear through the closed door but can't make out words. Just the low rumble of male voices—Dad's measured baritone, Adrian's more clipped responses.
They're negotiating something that directly affects my life, and I'm sitting out here waiting for the verdict like a child excluded from adult conversations.
Emma settles on the couch beside me. Amelia sleeps peacefully in her carrier between us, tiny fists curled against her cheeks, oblivious to the tension crackling through the apartment.
Emma doesn't make small talk and doesn't offer empty reassurances about how everything will work out or how beautiful my baby is or how lucky I am.
Instead, she just sits quietly, watching me with the same careful observation Dad employed moments ago. But where his assessment felt like judgment, hers feels like understanding.
"You're not sleeping," she observes after a long moment.
"Amelia wakes up every two hours." The defense is automatic.
"That's not what I mean." Emma's voice is gentle. "Even when she's sleeping, you're not. I can see it in your eyes. You're... running on fumes."
My throat tightens. I look down at Amelia to avoid Emma's knowing gaze. "I'm fine."
"Sophie." She waits until I meet her eyes. "You don't have to perform for me. I'm not here to judge whether you're doing this right."
The kindness in her voice cracks something in my chest. I blink rapidly, refusing to let tears form.
Emma shifts slightly, her attention drifting to Amelia. "When I met your dad, his daughters were four, six, and eight. Three little girls who'd just lost their mother—not to death, but to abandonment, which is somehow worse because they kept hoping she'd come back."
I didn't know this story. Dad rarely talks about his first wife, the woman who walked away from three young children without looking back.
"Suddenly I was supposed to be their mother figure,"
Emma continues, her voice carrying old pain that's been processed but not forgotten.
"And I had no idea what I was doing. Everyone expected me to love them instantly, naturally, like maternal instinct would just kick in because I was female and they were children who needed mothering."
She pauses, fingers tracing idle patterns on the couch cushion.
"But it didn't work that way. I looked at these three scared, angry little girls and I felt... responsible. Obligated. Determined to do right by them. But love?"
She shakes her head. "That took time. Months. Sometimes I'd watch them sleeping and feel nothing but exhaustion and fear that I was failing them. That I'd never measure up to what they needed."
My chest aches with recognition. "How did you… When did it change?"
"Gradually. So gradually I didn't notice it happening until one day I realized I'd stopped thinking of them as Derek's daughters and started thinking of them as just... mine."
Emma's smile is soft with memory.
"But those early months? I felt like a fraud, like everyone could see I was just going through motions, performing motherhood without feeling it."
She reaches over and squeezes my hand, the gesture grounding me in the present.
"I'm not saying I understand exactly what you're experiencing. The postpartum struggles, the biological connection that's supposed to make it automatic but doesn't always—those are different."
Emma clarifies to then glance at me.
"But I do understand the pressure of loving children who need you when you're not sure how to access those feelings. When society expects instant maternal devotion and you're just... surviving."
The tears I've been fighting finally escape, sliding down my cheeks before I can stop them. I wipe them away hastily, not wanting to wake Amelia with my crying.
"Does Dad know?" I ask quietly. "How hard was it for you at first?"
"He does now. Took me two years to admit it, but yes."
Emma's expression turns slightly rueful.
"Men like your dad—good men who love their children fiercely—sometimes they can't fathom that love isn't automatic for everyone. That maternal feelings are just feelings, and feelings take time to develop."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, Amelia stirs slightly but doesn't wake, just resettles with a small sigh.
"You're doing better than you think," Emma says finally, her voice carrying quiet conviction. She glances down at Amelia, then back at me, her eyes soft with understanding. "I see how you respond when she cries. How you hold her. How you're trying even when you're exhausted."
Her hand is still holding mine, warm and steady.
"That's what matters right now. The overwhelming love everyone promises? Sometimes it arrives late, builds slowly instead of hitting all at once." She squeezes my hand gently. "That doesn't make you a bad mother."
I want to believe her, want to let her words sink in and dissolve the guilt that's been eating me alive since Amelia was born.
"What if it never comes?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "What if I'm just... broken that way?"
Emma's response is immediate and firm. "You're not broken. And it will come. Maybe not today, maybe not next week. But it will. Love sometimes takes longer to arrive than the baby does."
I allow myself to believe it, just for a moment. Let Emma's certainty wash over the doubt that's been my constant companion.
From down the hallway, I hear the study door open. Male voices growing louder as Dad and Adrian return. Whatever negotiation happened behind that closed door is apparently concluded.
I squeeze Emma's hand back, grateful for this moment of honesty. For someone who sees my struggle and doesn't recoil from it.