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Aika Gōjo was almost eighteen months old now.
An expert waddler, enthusiastic advocate for making a mess and a warmogger from how she’d throw toys at her dad in either a good sense of harmony or a hunger-induced temper tantrum. Her temper tantrum—oh gods—were legendary. Had to be genetics, her mother thought, watching her husband teleport back into the house, stumbling through the hallway with the limited edition live-sized doll their daughter had been crying over for the past five minutes, since she saw it in that advertisement on the TV. Her husband had wrapped to the opposite side of the globe just to grab the ridiculous doll set because his ‘poor baby girl’ demanded for it at first glance. It wasn’t genetics—Utahime reminded herself. It was the way Satoru was hellbent on spoiling their daughter.
Despite being the mother, Utahime had enough sense to know that no, her daughter was no one special. For them, she might always be, but that was no excuse for them to listen to her demands as if she were a tiny terror tyrant and they were her loyal slaves. Aika had everyone wrapped around her finger—no surprise there, with those rosy cheeks and big blue eyes, who wouldn’t—especially her father. Utahime would’ve loved to take a bit more stern approach towards raising the kid she carried in her womb for nine months, but would Satoru ever give her a chance?
Fortunately, their child was smart. Even though she was only a few months older than one, her vocabulary was immense. Her favourite word?
Mine .
Utahime was crouched down on the nursery floor, picking up the assortment of expensive toys scattered on the rug—building blocks, plushies, winding toys and whatnot. Toddlers liked leaving their area in a mess, it was their natural habitat. It was where they were mostly found, thriving in the wildlife. And of course, the one who faced the brunt of this was she , who kept constantly stepping on the small pieces of playthings that were not supposed to be gifted to a one-year-old in the first place. So while Utahime cleaned the mess and kept all of Aika’s toys and plushies back into their basket, Aika came waddling forward. Seeing her mother going through the trouble of giving her a safe, clean environment to live in, she obviously felt the need to intervene. To show her how thankful she is.
The child grabbed the ear of the tiger plushie that was about to be dumped into the basket of doom and said, “Mine.”
“Yes, yes. That’s yours. That’s Aika-chan’s. Can Mumma put it away?”
“Mine,” she said again and pulled. Utahime let the plushie go, thinking it could keep the toddler occupied while she cleaned the rest. But when she went and picked up another, Aika crawled to her and grabbed that too. “Mine,” she said, pulling it with force Utahime knew was not normal for a child this small.
“Mumma is keeping it away. Mumma is cleaning, can I have it?”
Apparently not, from the way the child pretended not to hear her and carried that one away too. And after four more tries, Utahime realised that Aika wouldn’t let her put any of her toys back into their places. If the toddler thought she was taking away her precious collection of useless plastic that had been half chewed on or was just doing so because she liked the way her toys were thrown around, who knows? All she knew was that Utahime would have to do this in the guise of the dark when her daughter was sleeping, only for the basket to be tumbled again at the first thing in the morning.
That was okay, though. Her daughter’s second favourite word(s)?
“ Want ,” the baby said as she was being pushed around in her pram, pointing at the stack of wet leaves at the side of the pavement. They were just about to head home after Aika’s daily rounds around the city park, until her pram was unceremoniously stopped at her demand.
On the stack of leaves was the wet, dripping figure of an abandoned puppy.
“Poor guy’s lost,” her husband said as he crouched down below it, petting its muddy, drenched fur. Utahime wrinkled her nose in disgust. She hated, hated stray animals. Especially dogs. Call her insensitive or whatever, but she can bet her entire savings on the fact that that dog carried at least a hundred different diseases. She was going to make Satoru have a shower when he got home. And put his clothes into the washer, seeing the way the tail of his trench coat stuck to the wet pavement below.
“I wonder if we—” he started, but then stopped when his gaze fell on his wife’s face. She was in no way letting a wild, feral dog into her house. But Satoru knew tricks, Satoru had them stacked, labelled, and safely guarded with him, collected over years of experience. So instead of looking at Utahime, he looked at their tiny terror seated comfortably in her pram. Just one look, and as if both father and daughter could telepathically communicate, their fate was sealed.
" Give ." At the child's commanding voice, the pram stopped. Aika didn't cry, she didn't fret. She demanded.
" Now ."
And that's how there was a gross ball of fur sitting on Utahime's kitchen counter.
However, could you guess what was Aika-chan’s most-used word?
“ No .”
"Aika-chan. One last bite," the spoon of mashed peas was an inch from her pouted lips, and the distance grew when she leaned back.
"No."
"For mumma? Please?"
"No!" Utahime sighed, keeping the spoon down with a clink. Aika, much like her father, was a picky eater. While she would grab raw veggies and chicken patties and plop them in her mouth like a champion, she would gradually lose interest in eating by herself halfway through and then claim that she had eaten her fill. And to no one’s surprise, her feeding time proved to be a disaster, every time. Utahime could feel a headache booming in her temple, her back hurt from her bad posture one was bound to get after carrying an eight-pound baby in your womb. Caring for a child was hard and she was committed to it, but boy, it did get so hard sometimes.
The door swung to reveal her husband, the demented, destroyed remains of her post-pregnancy pillow in his grasp. That wrenched dog.
"What's this? Is Aika-chan being a bad girl? Being bad to mommy?"
"Full." The baby said, pushing yet another attempt at feeding away. Sensing his wife's fatigue, Gojo takes over.
"Aika-chan is going to get weak if she doesn’t eat.”
“Full,” the toddler smacked her stomach, showing her father that there was no space left in Aika-chan. But Satoru had tricks. He had them stacked and stored.
“Full?” he patted her stomach gently. And because Aika knew how to say ‘no’ but not ‘yes’, all she did was repeat ‘full’ three times in an effort to make her father understand that, yes, Aika-chan was indeed very full. Satoru, being the master of tricks, tickled the child till her booming, sweet, innocent laughter filled the kitchen. Then he retracted his hand and held it in a fist, and waved it around.
“Look! Daddy took the food out. Now it's empty.”
“Full?” asked the baby.
“No, not full. Gone, See? Aika-chan is not full. Aika-chan is hungry.”
“Gone?” and Aika was immediately baffled, intrigued, and amazed. She looked at her stomach and then studied his fist closely, grabbing it with her grubby hands and checked. Wow, did her dada just grab all the food from her stomach and fed it to the doggy? Yeah, it must be. Now Aika was hungry, since she wasn’t full anymore. That's the way of the world after all. With that, Satoru successfully fed their fussy one-year-old daughter five big spoons of Miso soup and three pieces of tofu.
How her husband managed to stay this calm was beyond her. Utahime loved children, she always wanted to have her own family one day, to experience being a mother herself. She knew she was a bit hotheaded sometimes, but the way her own child went to new heights each day to annoy her really, really saddened her. She would never, ever want to yell at her daughter; she loved her. But each day as she grew, it got harder and harder. Aika was one, Utahime thought she had gotten used to handling a baby from the days when she was just a new mom crying because her baby wouldn’t latch on to her boob and cry all day even though her source of milk is right in front of her. (turns out her baby would only and only allow her mom to breastfeed her when they were alone in their bedroom; other places were a no-no for feeding, it overwhelmed her. Which is why they had to bottlefeed her when they weren’t in the house, which again was a hassle because Aika hated being bottlefed. She’d latch on, suck, spit it out and cry, and then do it all over again)
Aika had a thing for dramatics; it was obvious. Just like her father. Utahime once witnessed Aika getting up and rejoicing upon seeing her father, wobbling towards him only to hit a chair on the way. She looked at her father, who hadn’t noticed her yet, who stood three feet away, talking to his students. Unacceptable, Aika had thought. How dare he give attention to someone who wasn’t her, when she had, oh-so ungraciously, painfully, pitifully gotten hurt? She even hit this chair—this damned obstacle that stood evily in her path, stopping her from meeting her father. So Aika, a lover for drama, plopped on that very place on her butt and crawled mournfully to her father, summoning her tactically, fake crying skills. The moment Satoru noticed a babbling, scheming mess crawling and tugging on his leg for attention, he picked the child up and subjected her to his own sense of fake concern. Everyone knew when Aika was crying due to stress, hunger, pain and when she was being a little manipulative tyke. No tears, puffed cheeks, scrunched face and loud, random toddler words meant that Aika merely wanted attention, which she was duly given.
“What’s wrong? Is she hurt?” Nobara had proclaimed herself the ‘cool older sister’ right outside the hospital room where Aika was born, so she pushed her classmates back and came rushing forward. Yuuji yelped and Megumi tsked. “Is she okay? Hungry? Do you want chookie? Does she need milk? Aika-chan? Aika-chan! Here, here!”
But Aika-chan didn’t care for her older brothers and sister as she wiped her non-existent tears and rubbed her nose. Her main concern was her–
“Dada,” she said and pulled his jacket. “Dada.” This was nice. Her father was rocking her gently, soothing her back as she knocked her head against his chin. Aika sniffled for the extra effect.
“Did Aika-chan get hurt?” Somehow, her father always read her thoughts right.
“Hmm…” Aika said and thrust her thumb into his face. “Boo boo.”
“Oh! Who gave you a boo boo?” he asked her as he wrapped a hand against her, running his own fingers gently over it. Aika pointed to the chair. The chair was ambushed by the horde of teenagers.
Megumi, surprisingly, was also included.
So while the dumb, easily-swayed adolescents (Aika’s words, not hers) kicked and yelled profanities at an inanimate object (bad chair! Bad chair! And a very timid ‘bad chair?’ from Megumi), Aika turned her attention to her dada, who chuckled at their antics. What the hay. Why was she not being provided with the attention, care and love she so desperately needed?
But not to worry, readers. Aika’s boo boo wouldn’t go away without excessive care, continuous cooing, gentle rocking, blowing over her boo-boo affected area, a mandatory dance routine and one hour of tablet time.
This was the way of their universe, after all.
Her daughter was a devil in disguise, a tyrannical torment sent up on earth to manipulate everyone around her with a fake sniffle and an overdose of cuteness. Surprisingly, Aika’s little schemes worked on not only her Dada, but also Sho (for Shoko), yuuuu (for Yuuta), nee-nee (For Nobara, since she was the self-proclaimed older sister), dakko (dakko just meant ‘carry me’, but Aika called Yuuji dakko because he was a very avid baby-carrier), ki (For Kirara) and gum-gum (yes, she called Megumi gum-gum, much to his utter embarrassment).
Apart from the apparent flair for dramatics, another thing that her daughter inherited from her father (excluding the obvious facial resemblance) was her self-assured arrogance. A child would obviously consider themselves the best of the best, children tend to have no room for insecurities in their endless voyage for exploration, however, Aika’s way of going about it was so similar to her father that it made Utahime want to burst out laughing. Aika called herself ‘aka-chan’, which meant baby, and it was probably a thing she picked up from the adults around her, especially her grandparents. It was aka-chan this and aka-chan that , so much that Aika would crawl up to the mirror in her parents’ room, stand up on her wobbly legs and merely look at herself in the mirror for hours. And at a random lapse in her baby prep-talk with herself, she would point at her reflection in the mirror and call it ‘aka-chan’. Then she’d let everyone know that there was an ‘aka-chan’ behind the long clear door. Walk to her mother, tug on her clothes for attention, point to the mirror and say ‘aka-chan’. Summon her father right after he came out of the shower, worried and thinking Aika had hurt herself considering her intensive calling, point at the mirror plainly and say ‘aka-chan’. Drag Shoko to the bedroom the moment she gets inside the house to show her the ‘aka-chan’ she found. Constantly babbled about aka-chan. Aika’s best friend was herself. Did she know that aka-chan was her, or did she merely like showing herself off?
It was so hilarious that once, Utahime stood in front of the mirror cradling the child to her chest when the toddler promptly pointed to her reflection and said, “Aka-chan cute.”
“Aka-chan is cute?” Utahime asked her as she placed the child in front of the chair and worked her hair with a brush. Aika had chosen out what colour of hair ties she’d want her pigtails to be in (pink and neon green)
“Aka-chan cute?” Aika asked as her mother successfully tied one side of her hair in a pigtail. It was good that she was currently distracted by studying herself and not moving her head around like she usually does.
“Yes. You look very cute,”
“Aka-chan,” the child said again, pointing at the mirror, turning her head so suddenly that the other side of her hair slipped out of Utahime’s grasp.
God knows what Aika was trying to tell her. She’d once seen the toddler bang on the mirror with her fists and yell curses at aka-chan in baby language. Apart from Aka-chan, her friends consisted of their students and booru (for ball), doggy (for that filthy dog, who they named doggy just because Aika said so), meow meow (for the neighbour’s cat) Mister Raku (for the raccoon mascot show Satoru always put on the tv for her) and for some reason, Takada-chan (Aoi Todo cried over her dinner table when he heard that)
Aika was like her father in countless ways, so much that it overwhelmed her sometimes. Apart from the violet tint of her hair, Aika was a carbon copy of Satoru. One look at his baby pictures could clear our Aika’s ancestry better than any DNA test could. Those rosy cheeks, pale skin, wide blue eyes. The same pout, same puffed cheeks, and the ceaseless demand for attention. Aika looked like her father from the top of her smooth, silky hair down to her ten tiny toes. It made her wonder, was her daughter anything like her?
Did Aika inherit anything from her, or was she merely a vessel for her conception? Was it even right to think this way? Was this selfish, was she being insecure?
It was bound to make one think this way, when Aika would act fussy in her hold but instantly quiet down in her father’s embrace. It seemed unfair how she would never let Utahime bathe her properly, only wanting her father to assist her during bathtime. It seemed foul how she’d look forward to seeing her father more than she was willing to concede to Utahime. It seemed wrong how she would run up crying to her father for consolation and not to her .
Wasn’t a mother the closest friend a girl could have? Wasn’t this—taking care of her, bathing, feeding, teaching—fall on her shoulder? Being the mother, wasn’t she supposed to raise her child? Wasn’t it her job and not her husband’s?
She knew she was being stupid; she knew how much Aika loved her father, and he loved her a hundred times more back. She remembered when initially, Satoru had been summoned to an overseas mission, and Aika had cried and cried for hours, calling out to him constantly, crawling upto every room in search of his voice. And when Utahime finally called Satoru over the phone, the first sound of his voice made her baby cry all over again. Saying ‘dada, dada’ over and over as if she wanted him to come out of the phone screen.
Would Aika call out to her too, if she were to leave?
Utahime’s thoughts would never stop sometimes, reminding her of her failures as a mother, of not being able to live up to her name. Even though it was stupid and dumb, she wouldn’t stop thinking until a palm would engulf her hand over the dinner table or a warm arm would wrap around her waist in bed, lips planting a kiss on the back of her head, a huff of breath over her hair telling her to stop thinking so much.
She never told him what she thought, but she knew that he was already aware. He never probed her, never teased her, never tried to give a casual remark, but it was alright. It was alright that he just knew , and that was all she needed from him.
Until one day, there was a sound, started with a rumble, darkened grey skies covering the earth like a blanket. It was the early days of June, wrathful thunderstorms frequented the cities near Tokyo and were quite common. Utahime barely noticed it at first, just thunder rumbling behind the hum of their dishwasher. But then it cracked—a sharp, violent split across the sky, blinding shooting through the windows—and the house seemed to shudder.
From the nursery came a cry, not the usual whiny protest or sleepy fussing. It was the immediate, sharp, slicing through the atmosphere, a cry for help.
“Mama! Mamaaa!”
Utahime dropped the spatula in her hand and rounded the corner. She was in Satoru’s arms, warm and safe but distressed and frightened. Satoru rocked her gently and soothed a palm down her back, but it did nothing to deter her cries. Her tiny hands balled into fists at his shirt—but her face twisted towards the hallway, searching for her, sobbing like he’d forgotten he was even holding her.
When Utahime reached her, she all but leapt into her arms. She buried her face in her neck, hiccuping into her collarbone, clutching at her like she was the only safe thing in this world.
As her cries slowly quietened into sniffles, she heard Satoru shift beside her.
“Got scared and woke up, didn’t you?” he smiled down at her cradled figure, Utahime’s body rocking her back and forth softly. Satoru probed her squishy cheek—he always liked teasing her, but Aika moved her head away and whined, threatening to start crying again. She nestled closer to her chest and hid her face there, tears wetting her shirt.
“Fussy little baby,” he said with a laugh.
Aika didn’t leave her arms until she was asleep again, under the blanket and beside her, separating her and Satoru.
It made her wonder again, pushing her daughter’s wayward hair out of her face, running her fingers over her closed fist. How many times had Aika called for her in the past year, out of necessity, fright or distress? Many times, her brain answered for her. Aika called out to her every day or two, it had become such a norm that Utahime had started stuffing it at the back of her brain.
At the park, when she was playing with Satoru, she lost the plastic play tube that was three feet away from her. She ignored her father, who was right in front of her and ran to Utahime who sat on the bench away from all the commotion. Held on to her pants and babbled into them.
At the doctor’s, seated on Satoru’s lap, she had examined the clinic intently while the doctor examined her. Waved around an animal thermometer which made her eyes go wide. However, the stethoscope was the last resort. Burst out crying before the doctor could even place it on her stomach. Twisting to the side and asking for her mother right beside her, who she was duly handed over to. Then took the stethoscope like a champ while sitting calmly in her mother’s grasp.
At her first birthday party, surrounded by all her favourite people. Sho, yuuu, nee-nee, dakko, gum-gum, aoo, dada and even the raccoon mascot, but before they could even blow the candles, she cried in her birthday seat, overwhelmed and scared by the commotion. She had been passed around like a parcel in everybody’s arms, too many lips had smooched her cheeks tonight, too many lights were shining, too many balloons were rolling on the ground, she’d been held twice by everyone, handed too many boxes of gifts. Too oversimulated to sit in one place, Aika cried out to the only person in the room who did not agitate her: her mother. People had awed and laughed like adults mostly did around a wailing child, but Utahime smiled softly and led her out onto the balcony, bouncing her around till she stopped crying. They cut her cake with her face still tear-streaked but calm, and then she took her straight to her room to feed her while the others had cake and celebrated. Every child’s first birthday experience was somewhat similar, no matter how much they remember.
Aika may crave her father’s attention, want him to spend more time with her—he was always so busy. But she sought and searched for her when distressed. Wanted only her mother’s comfort, those arms around her form, that familiar heartbeat in her ears. Because she knew that no matter what, no matter how old she got, Utahime would always let her in, soothe her soul, chase her demons away. She would never shut her down. She believed this, and fortunately, Aika believed in this too.
The mattress dipped as her husband got in beside their daughter, sighing soundly. Worn out, exhausted, muscles built of fatigue. Tired but content, he brushed away their daughter’s bangs off her face.
“Do you remember,” he started suddenly, admiring the face of the child they created, as if she were a star that they handpicked from the sky, “when Aika was five months old, how she cried when I went on that week-long mission?”
“Crying? She raged, Satoru.” Utahime rolled her eyes and scoffed, a smile playing on her lips. “Never had I seen her that upset. She cried when she heard your voice over the phone,”
“Yeah, it made me feel so bad for leaving. But then I came back, and she didn’t even recognise me.”
The past memory struck her like lightning. Aika, merely five months old, did not show a hair of excitement or recognition upon seeing the father she so desperately cried for. Even broke out crying when he held her. It took her half a day to realise who he was, and another two hours to get back on normal terms with him. It was typical for babies at that age; they fret and cry if a person who was a part of their routine disappeared, but wouldn’t recognise them again due to their short absence. She only managed to recognise her father because he was insistently talking out loud; one thing that helped Aika bond with her father was his voice and his cursed energy. Safe, warm, familiar.
A large hand enveloped hers, where it was placed above her daughter’s head.
“But is there a child in this world who could ever forget their mother?”
Utahime bit her lip and sniffled into her pillow. Never had she thought she’d have someone who knew her so intimately. Her husband and her daughter. Aika knew things about her that she didn’t know herself; the rhythm of her heartbeat, the shape of her arms, the feel of her lips on her forehead, the sound of her lullaby that she had been singing to her since she was a small nothing inside her womb. She even knew the taste of her hair , with how obsessed the little one was with putting it in her mouth.
“No matter where you went, or how long you were gone, she would never forget you. You're the last person she sees before falling asleep and the first person she looks for when she wakes up. You are the world to her.”
“So are you,” Utahime spoke into her pillow, trying to wipe away a tear on the crinkle of her eye, hoping the darkness would conceal it.
“Nah. I am afraid I’m nothing in front of you. You stole her from me,” he joked, and then leaned over the sleeping figure of their daughter to plant a kiss right where her tear slipped away. Then a soft one on her cheek, her jaw, one behind her ear, but before he could continue leaving kisses down her neck, she pinched his forearm.
“Oof. c’mon,” he said, not sounding the least bit disappointed, only amused. “What’s the use of having a beautiful wife if I can’t kiss her?”
“To give you a beautiful daughter, perhaps,” she scooted closer as Satoru dropped back on the mattress.
“My daughter would’ve been beautiful with or without your contribution, thank you very much—ow.”
Her hand swatted his arm harshly, the slap reverberating in their quiet room. Aika slept soundly despite her father’s over-the-top whining. “Why would you do that?”
“I’ll smother you with a pillow while you sleep.”
“Jeez. Why are you so hellbent on turning your daughter into a fatherless orphan?”
“Satoru.”
“Fine, sorry.” he said, “no kisses for you then.” his head hovered over their daughter, and he placed a kiss on the crown of her head, whispering. “Mama’s just jealous of us, isn’t she?”
In her sleep, Aika grunted softly and turned her head away. Satoru laughed.
“Her scowl just like yours,”
Her hand held his a little bit tighter.
“Just like her mother.”
Maybe Aika wasn’t just her daughter, maybe she was theirs . Something they had built together. She didn’t have to do everything on her own, because she didn’t make Aika by herself. Maybe they were supposed to raise their child together . And Aika didn’t have to prove who she loved more, because the answer was right in front of her.
Holding his hand above their daughter’s head, Utahime fell asleep to the hum of the plattering rain on her window.