A/N: Thanks for all the positive feedback! I want to crank this whole story out before I go back to school in a few weeks, so your support really helps keep me motivated to write. I should be able to update every day or so if I'm not too busy. So thanks for coming back and sticking around to see where this little story goes. I hope you enjoy!

I don't own these characters or anything related to Glee.

Brittany finally walks towards you—once you shift your stance for the tenth time since you've arrived—pointing towards the adjoining den and couch. You follow her across the floor and take a seat next to her on the leather sofa. Silence fills the air and you can swear your heart's beating loud enough for everyone to hear.

There's a small motion out of the corner of your eye, and you turn to face Mini-Brittany as she hops up onto a large tan accent chair next to you. She looks even smaller now—if that's possible—when she begins to kick her tiny legs back and forth across the fabric, her feet barely dangling off the edge. She's smiling brightly at you and you can't help but smile back at her.

"I'll be in the kitchen, Britt," you hear the man say as he leaves the room, and you suddenly realize that you didn't even get an introduction.

You don't even know the name of the man who's marrying the woman you love. You guess you probably shouldn't even care at this point.

"I didn't know you were coming," Brittany finally says, and you let out a long exhale, taking a minute to formulate an appropriate response. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

She looks so different now, yet still so completely beautiful. Her blonde hair has grown out since you last saw her, and now falls way past her shoulders in gentle curls. Her smile has lost some of its spark, just like her eyes, but it's been replaced with a more calm and soft warmth. She looks like a mother and you just let it burn a hole right through your heart.

"You look good," you motion towards her and give her the most heartfelt smile you can manage in the moment. Even though you feel really out of place, you're truly being as sincere as possible.

"You too," she responds, more breathless than anything else. Her eyes fall over your body once, and you feel goose bumps form across your skin.

It's quiet after that, and you can practically hear the million different thoughts running through your busy mind once the room turns quiet again, but you can't seem to find any order within them.

You want to ask her about what she's up to—how her career's taken off.

The last time you saw her, she was finishing up a dance tour in the States and working hard in school at Juilliard. You wonder what took her so long to graduate, but then you remember that Brittany is Brittany, and no one can really place any sort of confines and limits around her before she's off on her next great adventure.

That's one of the things you love about her the most—her crazy ideas and almost irrational spontaneity—and you hope that she's as happy in her career as you are in yours.

You want to ask her about her family because you know how close she used to be with them before, and you hope that they're still acting as a support system for her now. The last time you saw her mom, you were out shopping at the grocery store, and she was pestering you about an engagement. She really had no idea how far south everything had gone at that point. How much you were struggling.

You kind of really miss her parents and their strange yet kind hearts. They remind you of your mom and dad, and sadly, that you'll never see them again. You wonder if Brittany misses your parents like you've missed hers.

You want to ask her about her home, and how she managed to find such a perfect little house in the city.

You want to ask her about her fiancé—even if you can't stand him—to know how happy or unhappy she is with him.

You guess she wouldn't be marrying him if she was unhappy, but you can still hope.

You want to ask her what it's like to be a mom because you always thought she would make a wonderful mother, and you're really proud of her.

You're head is swarming with desire to ask her all of these questions, but for some reason they get crowded up in your throat, and none of them can cram their way out.

"I saw that article in the newspaper last year about you and Juilliard," you finally say and exhale with relief.

Her eyes are wide and she's giving you that look that makes you feel like she's seeing straight through you, so you squirm in your seat, hoping that she'll turn her eyes away for a second. She doesn't.

"Yeah, well I'm not really dancing all that much anymore," you see her expression turn kind of regretful, and it hurts you to see her like that.

"Why not?"

She shrugs her shoulders and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. "I'm running a dance studio now, so I don't have much time for it anymore," she answers.

You can't tell if she's sad about it or not, and your inability to read her as well as you used to be able to aggravates you a bit. Maybe Quinn was right when she said that Brittany is almost a completely different person now than the girl you once knew. You want Brittany to be happy more than anything.

"What about you?" she asks. "Are you working again?"

You're a little disappointed that she has to ask you that question, but you know it's completely fair. When you and her were still together, you were struggling to just keep a job to pay the rent. After you lost your singing career, your perfect voice wasn't the only thing that disappeared. Your depression drove you to an edge where your drive and passion—the traits that you always thought would never abandon you—were gone.

"Yeah, I'm… working again. Actually, I graduated from law school this past year," you quietly admit, hoping that she's maybe a little bit impressed. You want her to be proud of you. "I joined this firm with a guy one of my teachers introduced me to. We do a lot of work for big businesses and… stuff like that," you swallow audibly and look up towards the ceiling nervously.

Feeling so awkward around Brittany isn't something that you ever thought you'd have to deal with.

"I'm really happy for you, Santana," you meet Brittany's eyes and squirm again. She's throwing you some killer looks today, and you're feeling it everywhere.

You don't know what to say after that. You don't know what to say to Brittany when there's Mini-Brittany sitting next to you and a man down the hall probably listening to every word the two of you speak. You thought this would be easier; you thought that this was a good idea.

You wish you had something more important to say right now, but you have a lot of respect for Brittany and what she's created for herself here. And you don't want to be insensitive in any way.

Mini-Brittany seems to have perfect timing because she hiccups and then lets out the most adorable little giggle you've ever heard before you get the chance to make up something just to fill the uncomfortable silence. And then you turn to watch her staring at you with those same wide eyes, and you realize that you should probably stop calling her Mini-Brittany in your head because that's certainly not her name.

"Hi," you say in the most positive and cheerful tone you can muster up. "What's your name?"

The little girl smiles brightly and then drags her self up the chair so she can sit upright and see you better.

"Lilly," she speaks, and you swear that she sounds just like child-Brittany the moment the name leaves her lips.

"What's your name?" she retorts, not a bit of shyness or hesitation behind her question.

"Santana," you answer as you watch her face light up again, like you're some sort of angel or something and she can't look away.

"That's pretty," she says and then pulls her teensy legs up towards her chest to wrap her arms around them. Her smile hasn't faded for a second as she continues to stare at you with her awestruck eyes.

Except for that head of dark brown hair, you're certain that this little girl is an exact replica of Brittany when she was… four maybe? Three? She's so perfectly tiny. Completely and utterly stunning, just like her mom.

"How old are you, Lilly?" you ask.

You feel Brittany stiffen suddenly at the question, but you don't really think much about it or make anything of it.

"Five," she answers proudly.

You're not sure how long you stare and wait. Maybe it's only a couple of seconds, or maybe it's closer to a few minutes or so of you just sitting there, while the gears in your head are clicking and spinning away.

It takes you a little longer than it should to digest and comprehend the meaning behind her answer because your first thought is that she's way too small to be five. Maybe three or four, but not five.

And you remember that five years is a long time, and that you were a completely different person back then.

And then you feel a little stupid because you're really puzzled that there's something not quite right about her answer.

And then your face scrunches up in calculating confusion, and your head tilts to the side as you go over the math in your head again and again, trying to come up with any other possibility. But when the numbers keep telling you something that you can't quite believe, you turn back to Brittany with the most serious, questioning and confused look you're sure she has ever seen on your face.

"Brittany?" you say, a little bit of fear dripping from her name.

You guess her silence and scared expression should be an answer in itself, but you want to hear the words from her own mouth because you're not sure you want to believe them.

"Brittany?" you repeat, even more serious than before.

Instead of answering you, Brittany turns to Lilly and smiles.

"Lil', why don't you go see about helping Robbie with dinner," she says affectionately. You didn't miss the way she's referred to her fiancé as Robbie, instead of Daddy.

You think that maybe you hate this man a little less than before. Just a little.

Lilly runs off towards the kitchen and you feel an unexpected tiny rush of love course through your veins and into your pounding heart.

But then that love turns into anger because Brittany still hasn't said anything and you're starting to reach that point where you throw caution to the wind and start spouting swear words left and right and all around you in a cloud of fury.

Brittany must know you well enough because she finally clears her throat and sighs before telling you the answer to the question that you haven't verbalized, but know she's heard.

"She's our daughter, Santana," she explains quickly and quietly, and you feel that anger bubbling up to the surface again before you can help it.

Your mouth's hanging open and your eyes are wide, and you're looking at Brittany like she has no right to give you any excuse to explain how this could possibly ever be okay.

You take a few minutes to try and wrap your head around this bombshell, but you're not really getting anywhere. You try and understand how, if all this is really true, you could have ended up in this situation in the first place. How Brittany—the only woman you will ever love—could have done this to you.

The words come out much louder than you intended, but you're pretty sure that you get your point across.

"And… you didn't think that—I don't know, maybe some time in the past five years—it would've been a good idea to call me up and say, 'Hey, Santana. I know we ended things badly, and I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner, but we have a child together'!"

You see Brittany flinch, but you don't really feel sorry for speaking in the manner in which you did. You're so fucking fuming-mad right now, and you know any excuse Brittany throws at you is only going to make you feel worse.

"I know… and I'm so, so sorry Santana," she begs.

"Unbelievable," you can't understand this for a second. You don't really want to attempt to try either.

"But after we broke up, I was still so mad at you. And then I found out I was pregnant, and it was like… too much to take at once. My head was telling me to just call you and talk to you, but my heart was still hurting so much, and I didn't think I was ready to see you again, let alone have you back in my life for forever. I just…" she takes a second to breathe before finishing. "I c-couldn't," she chokes out.

You bite your bottom lip; your head's shaking back and forth quickly in disbelief. You swear that you can feel steam shooting out of your ears and your face turning that very unattractive shade of red, but you don't really care right now. You don't think you've ever been this mad at anyone, not just Brittany.

"And then Lilly was born and I was fine—we were fine without you. And it was just so much easier without you around to remind me of how much you broke my heart and hurt me. And then I met Rob and…"

You won't let her finish that sentence; you really don't want to hear about another man taking care of your kid—your daughter.

Those words sting at your heart more than anything Brittany's said today.

"No, Brittany," your hand goes up and your eyes find the ceiling.

"I'm s-sorry," she mumbles and you finally realize that she's crying.

This is way too much for you to handle.

You need time to digest and breathe because you feel like everything's just crashing down around you and you're suffocating.

One minute you were talking about jobs and passing uncomfortable pleasantries and thinking about how to maybe stop a wedding, and now… now you're finding out that that beautiful little girl who you thought belonged to her fiancé—that child who you haven't been able to keep your eyes off in the time that you've been here—is actually yours. Yours and Brittany's.

Fate must really hate you today, and you're starting to feel like you might pass out. Actually faint.

You're standing up and walking away before you give her a chance to say anything else. You know her words will make you so much angrier at this point, and you don't want to say or do something you'll regret later.

You're shaking your head and trying not to knock something over on your way out. You toss a rather rude "goodbye" over your shoulder, and then you're running out the door and stumbling down the steps to get to your car. Your vision is clouded with tears the whole way there.

It takes you a few hours and about five or six beers from your fridge to calm yourself down, but now you're feeling really drunk and bitterly unhappy instead. You're kind of missing that anger now.

Your back hits your large bed and you groan out to the world for making you feel like a damn, immature child.

And then you actually start sobbing because you just thought the word 'child' and freaked out.

It's been about five years since you felt this horrible about yourself. And god, you love Brittany so fucking much, but she's not really turning out to be all that good for your mental health.

You consider calling Quinn and just yelling at her because you really need to vent to someone, and she's the only one who could possibly be up this late at night: Quinn's a night-owl writer. She'll set you straight and tell you what to do. She'll call you a couple of not-so-nice names and throw a bunch of criticisms your way that you probably deserve.

Now that you've had time to think it through, you realize that you shouldn't have left the way you did. That you should have stayed and attempted to talk things over with Brittany and clear some of the air. Because intruding on her family and just showing up out of the blue was not really fair to her either.

No matter how angry you were and still are.

But when the room starts spinning and you're not sure if you can actually get up out of bed to grab your phone, you decide to save any conversation with Quinn until tomorrow.

Now, all you actually want to do is take off your tight black jeans, because your junk's kind of all tangled up and it's really uncomfortable, and fall face forward into your warm sheets so you can sleep off the alcohol seeping through your bloodstream. You cringe when you think about the hangover you'll surely have in the morning.

You only get your zipper unzipped and your pants pulled down to your knees before you're groaning and giving up and falling into a restless slumber.

You were definitely right about the hangover last night, but after a few cups of coffee, you've actually managed to get in your car and head to your office. You're not sure if you'll have a very productive day, with your mind still a complete mess and all, but you can't just not show up for work.

You get through about five hours worth of messy documents and conversations and arguments with people you could really care less about right now—which sort of pleasantly surprises you—before you get a call from Quinn.

You left a message on her phone this morning, knowing that she was probably still sleeping, telling her to call you when she wakes up.

"Hey, what's up?" she says after you pick up and whisper to your partner that you're going out for a lunch break.

You take a seat on a bench outside your office building and unwrap a turkey and swiss sandwich from your brown baggy lunch. You wait to take your first bite.

"So… I know you advised me not to, but I kind of went to see Brittany yesterday evening," you admit innocently, trying to protect yourself somehow.

You hear shuffling on the other end of the line before it goes quiet, and all you can hear is Quinn's soft breathing.

"I told you not to, Santana," she says sternly, like you've committed some crime. You secretly feel like you have.

You shake your head, just like you're sure Quinn's doing right now, and take a deep breath before dropping the more important news.

"She has a kid, Quinn," you say, the words hurt more than you expected.

"What?" Quinn sort of yells into the line. Her confused and disbelieving voice mirrors your feelings from last night and all morning.

"She has a five-year-old daughter named Lilly, Q," all seriousness laden in your tone.

During the brief pause following your statement, you know that Quinn's doing the math in her head too—the same figuring that you were trying to work out just yesterday.

"There's no way—five years old? That would mean…" Quinn stops in the middle of her sentence.

"It means…" you sigh, still not exactly able to say the words yourself.

"That she's yours!" Quinn gasps, and you feel broken all over again. Broken because everything's Brittany's fault, and it didn't have to be like this in the first place.

"Yep. I'm a mother of a freaking five-year-old, and I had no idea. No fucking idea, Quinn," your tone resembles the one you took last night with Brittany.

You're not nearly as angry as you were, but you're positive that if you don't keep yourself in check, you may fall off the edge again.

"So, what's she like?" The question catches you off guard, and Quinn's curiosity infuriates you a little, but then you think about answering her question and your anger falters instantly.

Because you can't possibly be angry with that little girl, especially when she's so extremely perfect in every way, and so completely helpless here. She's a walking miracle, and you already have such strong feelings for her even though you barely know anything about her. It's like a part of your heart that you didn't realize you even had just fell in love for the first time.

You helped create her, and it makes you so happy that you could cry.

"She's perfect," you exhale, smiling at the thought.

Quinn stays quiet, and you pretend like the drops of water falling down your cheeks aren't tears.

"I didn't know, Santana," Quinn eventually admits. "You have to know that I would have told you… had I known. But I had no idea," she says, and you truly believe her.

"I know," you reply, sniffling.

"I can't believe that she never told you, though. You had every right to know, even if you weren't going to be together as a couple. You have every right to that child; you do realize that, right?" Quinn blurts out.

And you agree with her completely, but you have absolutely no idea how to proceed from here. With the way you left things, you're not sure if it would be a good idea to show up unannounced at their house again. You know you're going to have to talk to Brittany eventually, but you don't know how to go about actually doing it. Maybe you should just call her and ask if you can meet up somewhere neutral for you both—somewhere where you won't feel like you don't belong.

"Do you think I could get Brittany's number from you?" you ask, deciding that this is as involved as Quinn needs to be in this situation. At this point, if you can't do anything for yourself, you're definitely not suitable to be any sort of parent-figure.

"Yeah, sure. Just hang on a moment, it's in the other room."

You wait until Quinn finds it and then reads it to you over the phone. You write it down on a ripped-off piece of your lunch bag and then stuff it into your pants.

You take a couple of bites from your sandwich while Quinn rambles on about custody laws and her sister's children and where she goes to buy the best toys now days. You really appreciate her trying to help, but you're sure you know more about those custody laws than she does considering you went to law school and she didn't. And even though you don't shop at Toys "R" Us regularly, you're pretty confident that you can still pick out a decent toy if you really want to.

But Quinn's being nice, which is not always the case, so you let her talk until you've finished your entire lunch and you're starting to get cold sitting outside.

"I've got to go, Q," you eventually say, even though you really have another fifteen minutes until your lunch break is over.

"Oh… okay," she sounds disappointed that you don't want to listen to her talk anymore. You feel sorry for her because you understand what it's like to be around Rachel a lot, and you're sure that Quinn hardly ever gets a word in anymore. But you don't think you can take another moment of her rambling. So you apologize and eventually hang up before heading back inside to get back to work.

You think that it's maybe the only thing that can keep you distracted from the piece of paper stuck in your front pocket.