nemolfc

[nemolfc]

Now that's rough.

yikes hendo lol

[nemolfc]

Very fucking convenient that the outrage to the guy who drove through the crowds quickly turned into people making excuses for him when it was revealed he was a white British 53 year old man. He's still a cunt. He's a terrorist. Hope he rots.

[nemolfc]

I need some of the amazing writers to keep Gibbs and Lala alive please .... and thank you 🥲🥲🥲

[nemolfc]

I need her to be alive .... because I will be devastated if she isn't 🥲

NCIS ORIGINS: 1.10 | Blue Bayou

[nemolfc]

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

I'M CRYING 💙 WE MISS YOU LEGEND!!!

[nemolfc]

we are literally living in some sort of apocalypse ...

All we hear is bombs and gunfire 💔

[nemolfc]

just some of the headlines ... over the course of the past two days, ... this is what the foreign governments want, they want us to kill each other

[nemolfc]

pray for us here in libya

[nemolfc]

unless virgil convinces him to join, ain’t no fucking way kdb is coming to liverpool, for a variety of reasons.

[nemolfc]

I am so scared to become a mother one day

[nemolfc]

I'm calling it ...

Inter

PSG

[nemolfc]

you know what, that's the beauty of the sport ... some teams give no energy and some teams give drama

[nemolfc]

are you?

[nemolfc]

jude bellingham when I catch you.

[nemolfc]

I got no words for Trent other than ... hope it was worth it

[nemolfc]

𝐢 𝐚𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 - 𝐱𝐚𝐛𝐢 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐨

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲: 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲 ��𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬—𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐦𝐚, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫, 𝐱𝐚𝐛𝐢, 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐫, 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞—𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲—𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐬.

(𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬. 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬—𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.)

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐬.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐢 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐬𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @ts1m1kas , @anfieldroad . @luvr4miya , @anifffff , @mountsgirl , @houseofdolan, @liverpool-enjoyer, @sunnysideup478, @katoptris01, @strawberrymilkcow03

Two lines. Two pink lines.

They blazed back at her from the plastic stick like twin flames, burning through the denial she'd clung to for weeks. Her breath caught. Her fingers trembled. Deep down, she had known — the nausea, the exhaustion, the strange aversions — but knowing was different from seeing. Seeing made it real.

Her chest tightened as the OBGYN's cheerful voice echoed in her ears, almost mocking the storm churning inside her. "Congratulations, you're about seven weeks along!" The words were warm, almost celebratory, but they dropped like lead into the pit of her stomach. It wasn't food poisoning. It wasn't stress. It wasn't the flu.

It was life. It was change. It was irreversible.

And she wasn't ready.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love Xabi—God, no. She adored him with every beat of her heart, every breath in her lungs. From the moment they met through a mutual friend—both nursing the wounds of heartbreak—it had been as if the universe had finally tilted in their favor. It was instant, breathtaking, all-consuming. Love at first sight, the kind that poets tried and failed to capture.

But even as their bond grew stronger, even as she pictured a future with him, one thought loomed like a shadow over her happiness: motherhood. Not just the idea of it, but the entire, overwhelming concept. The word alone sent a chill down her spine. It wasn't logical, it wasn't fair—she knew that—but fear isn’t rational.

It clawed at her, this dread. A deep, bone-chilling terror that made her stomach knot and her chest tighten. The notion of bringing a child into the world, of being responsible for a tiny, fragile life—it unmoored her. It wasn’t a question of love, not for Xabi. It was the haunting doubt that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t enough for something so enormous, so life-altering. And that doubt... it terrified the living daylights out of her.

And there was only one person she could hold responsible—her mother. To the outside world, her mother was the picture of strength and grace, the kind of woman who held a family of five together with a smile that rarely cracked and a voice that rarely raised. People admired her, even envied her. They saw a perfect woman, a selfless mother, a pillar of stability. But that wasn’t the version she knew.

No, to her, perfection came with a price. It came in the form of constant comparison, impossible expectations, and an unspoken pressure to be grateful—always grateful—for things she never asked for. As the middle child, wedged uncomfortably between two accomplished older sisters and two loud, demanding younger brothers, she often felt invisible. Her voice, when she dared to use it, was too soft, too late, or too much.

And yet, in a bitter twist of irony, she couldn’t entirely bring herself to hate her. Blame, yes—there was blame in abundance—but hatred? That was too simple. Because underneath the frustration and silence lived something far more complex: a longing. A longing to be seen, to be understood—not just as the reliable daughter or the peacekeeper, but as a person with her own struggles, her own identity, her own truth.

But they had never seen eye to eye. Not on what mattered. Not on the quiet hurts. Not on the years of pretending everything was okay just to keep the illusion intact. And that was perhaps the hardest part of all—loving someone so deeply, yet feeling like a stranger in their eyes.

Despite her best efforts, her mother’s voice clawed its way back from the shadows of her mind, louder and sharper than she remembered. No matter how many times she tried to silence it with logic, distraction, or even self-compassion, the words still echoed—merciless, unforgiving.

"You've gained weight." The sentence struck like a slap, not just once but again and again, replaying in her thoughts every time she looked in the mirror. She tugged at her shirt, suddenly hyper-aware of the way it clung to her stomach. The scale wasn’t even the enemy—it was the way her mother’s tone carried judgment, disappointment, and something colder than concern.

"You’ve been eating sugary and processed foods behind my back, haven’t you?" The accusation wasn’t just about food. It was about betrayal. As if her cravings were a moral failing. As if indulging in a moment of sweetness somehow made her dishonest, weak, undeserving. She hated how much she had started to believe it.

"Stop being so sensitive." Those four words had built walls around her feelings, taught her to doubt every emotion, every reaction. When she cried, she heard them. When she recoiled, when she tried to defend herself, she heard them. The message was clear: her pain was inconvenient. Her hurt, irrelevant.

"You need to be more brave." As though bravery were simply the ability to stay silent. To smile when it hurt. To swallow her truth and nod politely. But she had been brave. Every day she woke up and faced a world that measured her by her waistline, her tone, her obedience—that was bravery. But that voice, her mother’s voice, still made her feel like a frightened child failing to earn love.

And no matter how much distance she put between them, no matter how much she wanted to grow into her own skin, the echoes remained—shadows shaped like words that haunted her, long after they were spoken.

Her pain always seemed to vanish beneath her mother’s shadow, dismissed as if it held no weight. Every time she reached out—longing for warmth, closeness, some form of emotional intimacy—her mother would deflect, drawing the spotlight back onto herself with the familiar, suffocating line: “What about me?” As if her mother’s suffering was the only suffering allowed in the room. And yes, she knew—God, she knew—how much her mother had been through. That knowledge wasn’t lost on her; it lived inside her like a wound that never healed. It consumed her. It haunted her.

But what about her pain?

Was it really so selfish to want to be held, to be understood, to cry without guilt pressing into her ribs like a knife? She wasn’t trying to compete. She wasn’t trying to minimize her mother’s anguish. She only wanted to be seen—to exist fully, heartbreak and all—without being made to feel like she was some cruel burden, an ungrateful child daring to voice her sorrow in a house built on silence.

What hurt the most wasn’t just that she was unheard—it was that she felt disposable. Like her own anguish was an offense. Like her desire to speak was a betrayal. As if asking for empathy made her the villain in a story she never even chose to be part of.

If only her mother could see past the silence, past the forced smiles and polite nods. If only she could truly understand her—understand that food wasn’t just sustenance but a battleground, a secret war she fought every day. It comforted her, filled the aching void inside her chest when words failed or when loneliness wrapped too tightly around her—but it also mocked her, left her riddled with guilt, disgust, and shame in its aftermath.

If only her mother could hear the silent scream lodged in her throat every time someone casually asked, “How are you?”—a question so small, yet so sharp it nearly split her open. She lived always on the edge, one breath away from unraveling, one sigh away from a flood of tears she never dared let fall. If only her mother knew that she felt like an outsider in her own home, a visitor watching a perfect family portrait that she somehow didn’t belong in, didn’t fit. Like a shadow on the edge of the frame, always present but never quite part of the picture.

She hadn’t told her mother. How could she? How could she begin to explain that the therapy sessions she’d been quietly slipping away to weren’t about some fleeting sadness or a temporary crisis—but about unearthing something deeper, something that had been with her all along? It started with subtle clues—years of stimming under tables, of flinching from eye contact as if every glance burned, of rehearsing scripts in her head just to survive a conversation. The constant need to shape herself into something more “acceptable,” more “normal.” She had always called it anxiety. Sensitivity. Quirks. But therapy peeled away the layers, and there it was—autism.

The word hit her like a quiet explosion. It was surreal. Ironic, even. Because somewhere, buried beneath years of confusion and forced smiles, a part of her had always known. Still, hearing it aloud—framed clinically, definitively—felt like both a diagnosis and a homecoming. A truth that stung because it had taken so long to be seen. A truth she wasn’t sure her mother would understand, or even believe. So she kept it locked inside, letting the silence stretch between them, heavy and aching.

When she had first confided in Xabi, she'd expected confusion, maybe even withdrawal—but instead, he had met her vulnerability with the kind of quiet strength that broke her. He had been the embodiment of patience, the very definition of comfort, drawing her into his arms with a steadiness that anchored her storm. His words, simple yet sincere, soothed the ache she hadn’t realized had taken root in her chest. He never dismissed her thoughts, never tuned out when she rambled about the little things—her hobbies, the obscure facts she picked up, the ideas she was still untangling in her mind. He listened—truly listened—and through that gentle attentiveness, he became more than just her boyfriend.

He became her safe place. Her home. Her only family.

And maybe that was what hurt the most. Because in choosing to lean on him, she’d built a whole world around a single person. And the fear that it could all fall apart—that he could walk away—was unbearable.

She sat with the words heavy on her tongue, unsure of how to say them—how to tell him. The idea of becoming a father at this stage in his life, when everything was already moving at full speed, felt like a match dropped in a dry field. He had only just stepped into the daunting role of managing his former football team, Real Madrid—a dream job, yes, but one that consumed him day and night. His calendar was no longer his own. Every hour belonged to strategy meetings, press interviews, training sessions, and board expectations.

And then there was her—she had left everything behind. Her old job, her familiar life, her safety net. She’d uprooted it all and leapt into something new: writing for a Spanish educational magazine. It was a gamble, one she’d taken for herself, but also partly for him. They had been together for three years—three years of shared glances, missed calls, late-night talks, and whispered dreams. And now, everything was about to change.

But would he see it as a blessing or a betrayal? Would he hear the word “pregnant” and see a future—or a trap? Her stomach churned with dread. Surely, he’d yell. He wouldn’t mean to, but the pressure, the timing—it was all wrong. Hell, he might even walk away. Just get up and leave. She could already hear the silence that would follow—the kind that stretches too long, too cold.

She wasn’t just scared. She was terrified. Not just of the baby. But of losing him.

She fell back into the only defense she had ever known—burying her feelings beneath a carefully constructed facade, masking every flicker of fear, hope, or despair that threatened to surface. She moved through each day as if nothing had changed, as if the life quietly blooming within her wasn’t reshaping her world. She told herself she was doing her best, that pretending was safer than facing what she couldn't control.

But no matter how convincingly she smiled, no matter how effortlessly she tried to carry on, there was no escaping his gaze. He saw right through her, stripping away the lies she told even herself—and that terrified her more than the truth ever could.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

He wasn’t naïve—far from it. He’d seen the signs early on: the awkward silence that followed whenever her mother’s name came up, the way her expression shuttered like a door closing on a dark room. She only ever spoke to her mother once or twice a year, always out of obligation, never affection. He never pressed, never asked—though the silence between them in those moments often felt like it might swallow him whole. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He did. Fiercely. But he understood that some wounds fester beneath the surface, too deep for casual conversation, too tangled for easy explanation.

And so, he waited, choosing patience over pressure, trusting that she would let him in when the time was right. She had let him in once—quietly, bravely—when she told him about her autism. Her voice had trembled, like she expected him to recoil, to see her differently. But he hadn’t. He’d been grateful. Not just for her trust, but for the raw honesty she offered him—a glimpse into her private world that so few ever got to see.

Still, the unspoken pain that lingered between her and her mother haunted him. He could feel it sometimes, like a chill in the room when she spoke about her childhood in fragments, always in the past tense, always as if it belonged to someone else.

No, he was no fool. He knew there was a story behind her silence. And it hurt—knowing there was a part of her still locked away, guarded by old scars and broken bonds. But he waited anyway, loving her through the ache, hoping that one day, she'd find the words to let it all out.

One evening, as the dim light from the kitchen flickered softly, Xabi suggested they make dinner together. His voice carried a certain hesitance, the kind that didn’t just stem from a desire for companionship, but from something heavier. He had been watching her for days, her face drawn with an unmistakable sadness, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer. He needed to confront her, needed to understand what was slipping away between them.

"Amor?" he called gently, his tone betraying the tightness in his chest.

Her gaze darted away, a flicker of unease crossing her features. "Yes, love," she replied, too quickly, her voice an awkward mix of forced cheer and guilt.

Xabi paused for a moment, the air between them thick with unspoken words. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat as he weighed his next words. The silence stretched on for a second, then broke with the weight of truth. "I found something in the bathroom trash earlier."

Her body stiffened at the words, the tension coiling in her spine like a spring ready to snap. A flood of panic surged through her, her mind immediately spiraling to what he might have seen. She cursed herself silently, realizing too late that the mess she had left behind might come back to haunt her. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt her cheeks flush with shame.

"What did you find?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her heart thundering in her chest as she waited for his next words.

"Should I say it?" he asked, his voice trembling, not with anger, but with a deep, raw hurt that seemed to echo in the space between them. His eyes, once filled with warmth, now reflected a painful vulnerability, as if he was teetering on the edge of a truth too heavy to bear.

She hesitated, feeling a wave of dread wash over her. "I was going to tell you..." Her voice faltered, the words lodged in her throat, heavy with the weight of unspoken confessions. She had braced herself for this moment, knowing what was coming, yet still, the fear lingered.

She had grown all too familiar with the sting of her mother’s wrath, the sharpness of the accusations, the bitterness in every raised voice. This was nothing new, but still, the thought of what might follow made her heart race. She tried to steady herself, her mind already preparing for the explosion, the inevitable yelling that would follow her confession. But this time, there was something different—something in his hurt made her question whether she could handle what was coming.

"When?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with the weight of something unsaid. He paused, the question hanging in the air as if it couldn’t fully take shape, before adding, "During the birth...?"

The words cut through the silence between them, and her breath hitched in her throat. "Xabier!" she exclaimed, the rawness of her emotions making her voice crack. Her hands trembled as she tried to collect herself, but the turmoil inside her was overwhelming, like a storm she couldn’t escape. "I... I felt... I..." Her chest tightened, and she could hardly form the words, the flood of feelings overtaking her as they always did.

The agony, the helplessness—her heart twisted in a way that was almost unbearable. Her mother’s cold, indifferent dismissal of her pain still echoed in her mind, an open wound that never fully healed. The weight of it crushed her every time, a reminder of how little her suffering had ever meant.

"Hey... hey, it's ok," his voice cracked as he stepped closer, his hands trembling slightly as they hovered over her arms before gently settling there, as if trying to steady them both. "I'm not yelling. It's alright, just... breathe."

Her breath hitched, and her shoulders trembled with the effort to hold it all together. "I... I'm sorry," she whispered through the rush of tears, her words stuttered by her ragged sobs. "I should've told you, I know I should have... but I just... I couldn't." Her chest shuddered as she tried to speak, her voice breaking as she hiccupped between words. "I... I chickened out. I was... so scared. The thought of becoming a mother... becoming like my own mother... it scares me more than anything. And then there's this fear... this constant fear that you'd leave, that you'd walk away because... because of everything."

His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and his hands gripped her arms a little tighter, his thumbs tracing circles against her skin as if grounding them both in the moment. "Walk away?" His voice was raw, filled with a mixture of disbelief and desperation. He pulled her slightly closer, his gaze locking with hers, desperate for her to see the truth in his eyes. "Amor, I could never walk away from you. Don't you dare think that. Not now, not ever. You're everything to me."

Her tears blurred her vision, but she could see the sincerity in his eyes—the way his hands shook, the way he held her as if his very existence depended on it. She let herself crumble, finally allowing the weight of her fears to fall away, trusting that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't alone in this.

"It's been fourteen weeks, and I... I don’t even know where to begin," she says, her voice shaky as if the weight of the words is already crushing her. "I just wanted to tell you... but my head, my head wasn’t in the right space. I couldn’t find the words, couldn’t figure out how to make sense of everything swirling around inside me." She pauses, the rawness of her confession hanging in the air, and for a moment, she looks as though she might break down, the vulnerability in her eyes too much to bear.

He gently guides her to the couch, his hand steady on her back, offering silent support. As they sit down together, she shifts uncomfortably, a leg rocking back and forth in a rhythmic motion that betrays her internal turmoil. She draws a deep breath, her hands trembling as they rest on her lap, and then, with a tremor in her voice, she lets it all out. "It’s no secret," she says, each word heavier than the last. "My mother and I... we don’t have a good relationship. In fact, it’s far from good. It’s... it’s toxic, and I’ve been too afraid to say that out loud."

She finally looks up at him, her eyes brimming with tears, but there’s a fire in them now, an urgency to speak the truth, no matter how much it hurts. "I’ve been hiding from it, from her, from the mess I’ve become because of it. But I can’t do that anymore. I can’t keep pretending that everything’s fine when it’s not. I need you to understand that."

"I do, amor... believe me, I do," he said, his voice thick with emotion, the weight of his words pressing between them. His eyes searched hers, a storm of concern and helplessness swirling behind them. "I didn’t pry, not because I didn't care, but out of respect, out of fear of crossing a line that might shatter whatever fragile peace we had. But now... what has she done to you?"

His words cracked with the intensity of his frustration, as if every syllable carried the weight of his unanswered questions. The pain in his voice, raw and desperate, was unmistakable—he needed to understand, needed to know what had driven her to this point.

"I know you've always had siblings around, but have you ever truly felt invisible? Like you were stuck in this suffocating space, sandwiched between two older sisters who excelled at everything, always stealing the spotlight, and two younger brothers who were spoiled with everything they ever wanted, getting all the attention and affection? It was like I didn’t even exist in the same world they did. No matter what I did, I was always just... overlooked," she said, her voice trembling with the weight of years spent feeling like an afterthought.

“Oh, amor…” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath as he gently traced his fingers along her cheek, his touch tender yet full of sorrow. His eyes searched hers, full of pain, as if the weight of his own words would break him if spoken too loudly.

“I don’t hate her,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion, the words coming out slow and uncertain, as though he were wrestling with them. “I could never hate her... but the truth is, she never really understood me, not then and not now. I... I still can’t understand myself sometimes. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to regulate my thoughts, my emotions. I don’t know why I feel... different, or why I can’t stand being out there in the world, surrounded by people. I know I can be... difficult to be around, annoying even. But she…” His voice faltered as a tear threatened to escape, but he blinked it away, swallowing hard. “She made me feel like I was nothing. Like I didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t even worth the space I took up.”

Her words were raw, a confession pulled from the deepest, darkest corners of her heart. They hung in the air between them, each syllable a painful reminder of how far she had fallen from the love she once hoped would be enough.

"When the pregnancy test came back positive, it hit me like a tidal wave—like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from," she said, her voice trembling with frustration. "It’s like a horror film, each frame a new terror I can’t escape. Becoming a mother… it means second-guessing everything I do. It means wondering if I’ll ever be good enough, if I’ll ever meet the impossible standards she set for me. And what’s even worse—what really eats at me—is the thought of having to tell her I’m pregnant. Can you even imagine what she’d do? Just the idea of it makes my heart race. If I make one single mistake, just one, she’ll be on me like a hawk, reminding me, every chance she gets, that she didn’t sacrifice her life for me to turn out like this. To fail. To not be perfect—even as a mother." She paused, wiping away a tear, the weight of her words settling heavy in the room.

He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her as if trying to shield her from the world. His chest tightened, and the weight of the moment bore down on him. Tears filled his own eyes as he realized the depth of the pain she was holding inside, pain he hadn’t truly understood until now. She sobbed quietly in his arms, the sound breaking something inside him. He hadn’t known how much her mother’s absence had affected her, how much her doubts and fears had clung to her, until this very moment.

"Hey, amor," he whispered softly, his voice breaking the silence, "Listen to me." His fingers gently cupped her chin, lifting her face so their eyes met. His gaze was full of tenderness, a silent promise to share her burden. "Becoming a mother, a first-time mother... it’s never easy. I remember my own mother telling me about her struggles, how she felt lost sometimes, just like you might feel now. So, instead of letting your own mother’s insecurities weigh you down, I’m going to drive you to see mine." He paused, his heart aching as he watched her tear-streaked face. "You’ll spend time with her, not just to understand what you’re going to go through, what we’ll go through together, but also to protect your own peace of mind. You deserve that."

She hesitated, her voice trembling, "Are you sure she won’t be... annoyed?"

"Never, amor," he assured her, his smile tender and reassuring, though his heart ached at seeing her doubt. "My mother loves you. More than she loves me," he added with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.

Her lips twitched, a soft giggle escaping despite her tears.

"Ah, there's my smiling girl," he murmured, brushing a tear from her cheek with the back of his hand. "Now, let's wipe those tears away, okay? We’ll go back to making dinner, and we’ll take it one day at a time." He pulled back slightly, giving her a gentle squeeze. "Deal?"

She nodded slowly, the faintest spark of relief in her eyes. "Okay."

"Also," he said, his voice turning serious again, "You are not your mother, okay?" He held her gaze, his expression unwavering. "Repeat after me."

She blinked, as if the weight of the words was just settling in, then swallowed hard and, with a shaky breath, said, "I am not my mother."

He smiled, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride and love. "Good. Now, let’s face this together, amor. You’re stronger than you think."

[nemolfc]

@ liverpool

pls no monkey business ok