Quick note: If you noticed, the past few chapters have been Will-centered; spoiler alert: this chapter won't be. This will be the first of the few Emma-centered chapters, because I find it necessary to let you know what the family dynamics are in the Pillsbury household. This will definitely make sense in later chapters when we see more of how Emma behaves and acts around people. Hope you like this chapter!

Chapter 6

Someday, Someday

It was difficult growing up in the Pillsbury household—or at least that's what Emma thought. Even at a young age she had somehow known to herself that she wasn't the favorite child among Rose and Rusty Pillsbury's three redheaded children, but she refused to think of it that way, thinking instead that maybe her parents' less warm treatment of her over her siblings was just a case of tough love that naturally occurs in a family. But she had to admit that in one way or another, she felt as though her parents kept focusing their attention and energy on either Patrick—the eldest in the family and five years older than her— or Leila—the family's 'baby' so to speak, even if she was only a year younger than the skinny and doe-eyed Emma.

The sports-inclined Patrick almost always got praises for when he excelled in whichever sports he decided to join, and he joined a lot; he has tried playing football, basketball, running in athletics, and hockey—and he was good at it all— but he settled down on the sport he enjoyed the most: swimming. Rusty, being the proud father of a strong-willed son, tirelessly drove Patrick to all his practices and games, until all the hard work eventually got him on McKinley High's varsity swimming team as soon as he graduated from middle school. Apparently it was the ticket to being part of the popular crowd too, and as he got older he was already dating McKinley's prettiest senior or one of the quirky cheerleaders who'd gotten his attention; high school was a breeze for Patrick, because everyone knew him and wanted to be friends with him.

Leila, although Rose and Rusty both admitted that their youngest child had been unplanned and was accidental, still received the most attention from her parents mainly because she was a cheerful baby who rarely cried. She sang and dance and filled the house with delight, not a hint of shyness in her body; whenever a relative would come to visit they'd always beg for little Leila to sing and she'd do a complete performance in the family room, basking in everyone's attention and adoration. Now that she was a freshman in high school she was beginning to stand out from among her classmates, her bubbly personality gaining her some new friends and an assured spot in the popular crowd.

The same couldn't be said for Emma, who was in no way inclined to sports or anything that had an audience watching her perform; as much as it seemed like fun, watching Patrick swim and Leila shaking her hips and singing along to pop songs, the thought of doing those things herself made Emma anxious. She had been a tiny baby and still grew up to be petite in spite of having two tall parents; as her father always reminded her, "You're too fragile." Fragile, that's what he always said; it could've been a more positive word like gentle, perhaps, but it was always fragile—spoken in Rusty's rough and condescending voice. As soon as she'd known what the word meant, she slowly started to believe it. Her mother, Rose, seemed to have been influenced by her husband's way of thinking too, underestimating her eldest daughter even when she was doing just fine. She'd ask Emma to rearrange the utensils and plates on the dining table when she saw that a fork was out of line; or being the overbearing mother that she is, she'd tell Emma to rewrite her essay for school because her handwriting wasn't neat enough. For some reason, it was never enough for Rose and Rusty; Emma wasn't enough, and so they'd diverted their time to their two other children instead.

One would think that living a life like this would be unbearable, but this was the life Emma had known for sixteen years and her mind had learned to repress any negative feelings towards her parents, making herself believe that they were her parents after all; surely they meant nothing but the best for her… or did they? She had never been jealous of her brother and sister though—all she had ever been was proud of them, her heart full of love and well-wishes to her siblings as they went and accomplished great things. Emma did feel ordinary, comparing herself to Patrick and Leila, but she didn't feel any less special because she chose to believe that she'd find her spot in the world someday too; maybe one day she'd wake up and realize what her strengths were, and finally excel in them.

With Patrick already in college, Emma was now the eldest child at home and Rose Pillsbury's right-hand person; she'd spend her free time helping her mother out with the household chores, and even though Rose would tell her to rinse the plates a second time or vacuum the living room again because she wasn't contented with its cleanliness, Emma didn't seem to mind. Unconsciously, it gave her a sense of fulfillment, a kind of relief from the everyday anxiety she denied ever existed; her simple joys revolved around these chores, these repetitive tasks which had a certain routine and required a certain order.

Being around her mother in the house, Emma had learned how to cook too, and she enjoyed assisting her mother whenever she cooked her father's favorite meals. Rusty would be away for a few days at a time when he was on business trips, and one of the things he had always looked forward to were eating his favorite home-cooked food with a glass or two of chardonnay to match. He had come home one day and took a spoonful of warm beef stew, savoring the flavor in his mouth while he smiled appreciatively at his wife.

"Emma did most of the cooking this time," said Rose quite proudly, placing her hand on her husband's and patting it softly.

Rusty had swallowed and eyeing his daughter, astounded, he leaned back in his chair and said contentedly, "That was good." And the rest of the evening had passed without any further mention of Emma's cooking.

It was that night, when the sixteen-year-old ginger was cuddled up under her soft blankets and ready to sleep, when a lone tear fell from the side of her eye onto her pillow. Deep inside herself, she knew why she felt so wronged, undermined, and hurt: because of one simple compliment (and its lack thereof) from the very people who should be supporting her. Emma hastily brushed the tear aside before the others followed, refusing to acknowledge that she was hurt, refusing to admit that she was "good". Well, she didn't want to be just good—it wasn't enough; she had to be perfect! Having lived with two remarkable siblings, she wanted to prove to herself and to her parents that she could be like them too; only when Emma felt like she had finally found something she was good at, something she could finally be proud of, the very people who should be lifting her up burns down the flame of hope in her heart with a single word that won't stop bothering her: good.

Good. Maybe Leila was better and Patrick was the best, while Emma—she was just good. She flipped herself over in bed, laying on her stomach and burying her face in her pillow, biting her lip while still fighting back the tears. She kept telling herself that it was going to be okay; things were going to be better for her when the moment came…. Maybe it just wasn't her time yet.

Emma dreamed that someday, when that day finally came, her parents would finally see her as their daughter and as a person who had potentials, skills, and talents. But as much as she tried to give herself a relaxing reassurance that everything was going to be fine, she could still hear her father's voice resonating in her head, over and over, in a low, buzzing whisper: that was good… that was good… good….

Now good didn't seem like such a good word after all.

Another note: Did you miss Will? Don't worry, he'll be back in chapter 7. Better watch out for it!