Chapter Text
One and a half years later…
Becky was the power-walking, deadline-chasing, case-winning lawyer she had always been. Sharp suits, sharper tongue, and the softest heart—reserved for just one woman: her wife. Freen, meanwhile, was six months pregnant through IVF, glowing (and occasionally growling) through every hormonal wave. She’d taken a step back from her usual packed schedule and was now freelancing from their new sanctuary—a stunning modern villa nestled on the quiet outskirts of Bangkok. They’d sold the old house, claiming it didn’t have enough space for the future they were building: baby bottles, baby shoes, baby everything… and two chaotic furballs, Bonbon and Fluffy, who barked at shadows and treated socks like trophies in a battlefield.
Life was domestic. Loud. Loving. Messy in all the right ways.
One sunny Saturday morning, Becky stood in their sleek marble-topped kitchen, apron tied (backwards) over her still-buttoned work shirt, squinting at her phone with fierce determination. She knew how to cook—could whip up a perfect risotto, roast lamb, or even soufflé—but Thai breakfast? That was a whole new battlefield. She was determined to surprise Freen with something authentic, something warm and homey.
But the pancake had other plans.
She’d watched three different YouTube videos and tried to mimic a street vendor’s method, but somehow her batter had turned gluey, her pan rebellious. The moment she flipped the pancake, it tore mid-air and landed like a collapsed tent. Smoke billowed.
The smoke detector screamed before she could.
"I JUST WANTED TO MAKE PANCAKES!" Becky shouted in panic, flailing a dish towel like she was trying to chase away demons.
Freen waddled dramatically into the kitchen, pineapple-print fuzzy slippers thumping against the tiles, eyes wide as if she were witnessing the apocalypse.
“ARE YOU DYING?! ARE WE DYING?! WHERE’S THE FIRE?!” she yelled, both hands on her very round belly.
“My pride is on fire, Freen! My pride!”
Bonbon barked in solidarity. Fluffy howled, tail wagging like it was party time.
Freen blinked at the mess, then started laughing—hard.
"Mrs. Sarocha-Armstrong, I love you, but you need serious cooking lessons."
Becky groaned. "It’s Armstrong-Sarocha. And I’m a great cook! Just not… not with fish sauce."
“In theory, you’re a five-star chef,” Freen teased, lowering herself onto the stool with great care. “But in practice? You just nearly gassed us with pancake failure.”
Their laughter filled the kitchen, the alarm finally quieting down as Becky opened every window in the house. The chaos melted into joy.
Pregnancy, for Freen, was not a single journey—it was a season. A mood-swing-heavy, craving-filled, soap-opera-level emotional season.
Some days she’d sob because Becky told her “I love you” while handing her water.
Some days she’d sob because Becky told her “I love you” a little too last for her liking.
Other days, she’d suddenly climb into Becky’s lap whispering, “Babe, I’m horny,” while they were halfway through a Netflix documentary.
And then came the cravings.
“Mango dipped in kimchi,” she mumbled one afternoon while lounging on the sofa.
Becky blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I SAID—mango. Kimchi. Now.”
Ever the devoted wife, Becky complied. She even created a Google Doc titled “Freen’s Craving Tracker”—color-coded, timestamped, complete with location of last purchase and supplier ratings. It became their holy grail.
Chaos arrived on a Wednesday. At exactly 3:17 a.m.
Freen jolted awake, sitting bolt upright in bed.
“Becky. Becky. Becky. I think my water broke. Or I peed. I DON’T KNOW BUT SOMETHING’S WET!”
Becky, startled into battle mode, fell out of bed and landed on the carpet with a loud thud.
“Oh god—okay—don’t panic. I mean I’m panicking, but you shouldn’t panic. WHERE ARE YOUR PANTS?! WHERE ARE MY PANTS?!”
Bonbon and Fluffy leapt off the bed barking wildly, thinking it was another earthquake drill.
“Becky—the hospital bag!”
“WHAT HOSPITAL BAG?!”
“The one I packed THREE WEEKS AGO, you CLOWN!”
Somehow, they made it to the car.
Freen was buckled in, groaning and holding her belly. Becky was in the driver’s seat, trying to follow Google Maps and missing every turn like it was a game.
“Are we going to the hospital or taking a scenic route to death?!” Freen shouted.
“I’M DOING MY BEST! WHY IS THERE TRAFFIC AT FOUR A.M.?!”
When they finally arrived, nurses rushed to them as Bonbon’s bark echoed faintly from Becky’s phone (still on speaker).
In the operation room, Freen clutched Becky’s hand like a prizefighter before a final match.
“If I die, delete my search history.”
“You’re not dying, babe,” Becky said, kissing her forehead. “You’re about to meet our baby.”
A nurse chimed in, “Ma’am, deep breaths.”
Freen gasped, “NO. GIVE ME DRUGS. OR A SLEDGEHAMMER. SOMETHING.”
The doctor smiled gently. “You’re doing amazing Mama.”
“Mama? Did you just call me mama? MAMA WANTS TO GO HOME!”
Becky laughed through her tears. “You’re strong. You’ve got this.”
Freen turned to her with wild eyes: "YOU DID THIS TO ME. YOU AND YOUR HOT LAWYER SUITS."
"I SWEAR IF YOU EVER WANT ANOTHER CHILD, I’LL—"
More screaming. More chaos.
Then—finally—the soft cries of their baby filled the room.
Becky cut the cord, whispering through her tears, “You’re okay… our little star… you're okay.”
Back home, a few days later, celebration erupted.
Film showed up with pink balloons, confetti, and cupcakes that made zero sense at 9 a.m. Heng brought baby-sized sunglasses that had no business existing but somehow looked adorable. Nam sent flowers and a basket with twelve different baby creams.
The living room was a rainbow explosion of wrapping paper, bottles, burp cloths, and cake crumbs. Bonbon barked protectively every time the baby hiccuped. Fluffy tried to climb into the crib like he was applying for big brother status.
Becky, in a shirt stained with spit-up and a tiara Film insisted she wear, didn’t care. She was happy.
Freen sat on the couch, exhaustion painting her eyes—but her glow was unmistakable. The baby rested peacefully in her arms.
“We did good, Mrs. Armstrong-Sarocha,” Freen whispered, brushing her nose against Becky’s cheek.
Becky leaned into her, her hand resting on Freen’s knee.
“No,” she murmured, eyes full of love. “We did perfect, Mrs. Sarocha-Armstrong.”
Freen chuckled. "Do you think she'll be like me or you?"
Freen smiled. "Hopefully you. I'm too dramatic for this world."
Becky laughed. "Yeah, but you're my dramatic."
Outside, the city pulsed with life. Deadlines loomed. Traffic honked. The world didn’t stop.
But inside that home, everything was soft. Messy. Loud. Beautiful.
Their little family—complete.
And as they sat there, tangled up in baby blankets, laughter, and love—they knew one thing for sure:
This?
This was forever.
The End.