Til Kingdom Come [Harry Styles- Bk 4]

ch.38

I deserve an award. It's been a decade and I haven't gotten pregnant. Just a few months after my mental breakdown from Nonna's funeral way back when, Harry had tried to get me knocked up again, but I had a weapon: birth control.  

Now I know 'the pill' has been around since Gatbsy wrote about the flappers, but when me and Harry first got married 18 years ago, I wanted to get pregnant. Harry and I both wanted children. Many children. But I had a limit. Harry didn't.

We threw away our condoms the night of our wedding and sure enough, we had four golden children, one after the other (two at once, even). But after Farah, who has now just started her double digits, I said "no more" to Harry. Harry just smirked and touched me the same eager, but respectful way that he has touched me for years now. And everytime I tested myself and he waited patiently for the results (too confident to consider the possibility of  "not pregnant" sign on the tester) it came out negative. It frustrated him, made him feel as though he were losing his vivacious masculinity. He was losing no such thing.

Harry had been promoted up the steep ranks of his police unit. Soon enough, he would be the head sherrif and the most noted man on the force (not just because his butt looks amazing in his uniform) but because he's the slickest quickest man they've had in decades.

But about more babies. There won't be anymore babies.

"It's not you, it's me," I used to tell Harry, as if we were 12 year olds breaking up by the school bleachers.

"I may be 41, but I'm still as fit as I was when we first had you," he would reason softly, flexing his still-firm arm muscles as evidence of the maintainence of his physique.

"Yes you are, honey," I liked to smile and kiss the contour of his shoulder.

Harry never gave up, but he did slowly come to terms with the fact that we have about a thousand other priorities and four children to take care of; another baby would be the death of us. 

"Momma?" a soft voice called.

I turned to see Farah walking over to me hurriedly. Her hair was long, a dark mahogany brown, just like mine. It draped over her shoulders like a waterfall of silk. And her eyes. Her eyes were the exact same as mine: earthen, goldn brown and rounded like a doe.

"Yes, baby?" I smiled. Kate stood next to her, whispering something in her ear.

"Can Kate and I play dress up in your closet?" she mumbled quickly, afraid I would say 'no.'

I smiled. Farah and Kate had grown to be the same height and weight and level of cuteness. BUt Farah was soft, gentle in her words and how she spoke to others. Her cheeks wer almost permanently rosy and kissable like a doll. Of all my children, Farah took the most to me and my looks.

"Of course, baby. Just don't jurt yourself wearing my heels," I warned carefully, keeping my eye on Kate, who quite liked jumping around in my stillettos (which I never wore).

Kate is now the eldest of three girls. After Tony became more comfortable with being a daddy and was able to handle the idea of seeing yet another child come out of Becky, he got Becky pregnant again. And then again. Now they have three daughters: Kate, Lauren, and Nicole. They're all blonde. They're all adorable. They're all baby Sour Patch kids: sour. Sweet. Gone.

But Tony still wants a little boy, one that might take his looks, even though he loves baby Beckys running around since they're too cute to scold. 

"We promise," Kate nearly shouted. Her grey eyes narrowed and she scrunched up her nose as if thinking of a way to get around my words. Just like her momma.