Aerith comes home sulking and silent, a storm cloud of emotion on her face. Elmyra lowers her watering can. The plants can wait.
"Aerith," she says. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"
Aerith's eyebrows are drawn, mouth pinched, but when Elmyra takes her hand she's already slipping away, trying for levity, for a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Nothing," she says. "I'm just tired 'sall. Running around and such."
It's a joke between them. Her daughter isn't the most athletic child, preferring plants to most children's games. It aches to hear it now, with none of the warmth or easy laughter of before. It also makes up her mind.
It's not easy—never easy—but Elmyra lets go, fingers drawing back to clench in her apron.
"Wash up before dinner," is all she says.
Aerith seizes the opportunity to flee, the soles of her boots slapping against the stairs.
Elmyra waits. She's practiced at it and that thought doesn't dig as deep a hole as it used to. It still feels like the story of her life though—waiting, waiting, and more waiting. She tells herself this time it's different. The person she's waiting on is still alive.
Dinner is a silent affair and Elmyra isn't surprised when Aerith scrapes back her chair and goes outside. She tends to the flowers, touching them lovingly, softly murmuring to each. Elmyra smiles. There's so much about her daughter she doesn't understand but there's no struggle in this. Gardening brings a measure of peace to her soul too.
She's curled up with a book when the door opens and closes. She looks up in time to catch the anxiety that flits across Aerith's face before Aerith steels herself and marches over. She fits against Elmyra's side like she's never belonged anywhere else and they sit for a time, Aerith's head canted down, hands fiddling with Elmyra's apron. When she speaks it's slowly, haltingly, Aerith's eyes not meeting hers. "I got into a fight with a boy."
"He said," Aerith says, and falls silent. There's dirt on her right cheek. Elmyra thumbs it away and hopes for a flicker of a smile. There's none—Aerith only swallows and shuts her eyes tight. "He said you're not my real mom."
Elmyra blinks. "Oh," she says. Inadequate, insufficient. She regrets it immediately.
Aerith's eyes fly open, looking at Elmyra so fiercely that breath catches in her throat. "He's stupid," Aerith says. "Wrong and stupid. Saying you can't have more than one. That it doesn't count. But you do," she says, and Elmyra doesn't know who's she's trying to convince more here, Elmyra or herself. "You do."
Elmyra hugs her. It's all she can do. Aerith's fingers dig into her back. Tears stubbornly clinging to the ends of eyelashes wet the side of her neck. Elmyra rocks her, croons nonsense into her ear, and thinks: oh, my little love; oh, my dear.
She pulls back when Aerith calms, putting her hands on Aerith's shoulders.
"You shouldn't call people stupid," she says gently. She'd be remiss not to.
Aerith's face, still flushed from tears, scrunches. "Mom—"
The word still gives her a thrill after all this time. "It's not right, dear."
"Fine," Aerith grumps, but she's smiling, small and watery though it may be.
She brushes an errant curl from her daughter's face. "You're not wrong, though, about having two mothers. That's the good thing about hearts," she says, smiling. "There's always room for more."
Aerith looks at her slyly, moss green eyes gleaming. "Is there room in yours for a cat?"
Elmyra laughs.
My daughter, she thinks.
Hers, hers, hers.