Mischief had a price, Emilie forwarded her chain letters, the thought that went into their creation would have impressed Rylan. He was busy, zero time for silly e-mails, however, their friend Alex, was very unimpressed. She called ranting and raving, Emilie held the phone at arm’s length, bringing it closer to try calming the conversation. To make amends Emilie suggested lunch, with Chez Llama reservations. Emilie came with apologies, wrapped in a sense of humour, she wanted Alex to relax, enjoy a meal. Instead, Alex outright rejected her efforts, she felt the messages were inappropriate and a waste of time, their friendship stood on shaky ground, and Alex had finally had enough. The host observed them from the window, the increased tension, Emilie shifted awkward and embarrassed, while Alex walked to her car fuming.
Vlogging he claimed would replace writing; with the rise of social media the question was, what should he discuss? Homelife was filled with diapers, temper tantrums and Emilie wittering, he was unclear about what and rarely listened, instead he focused on stardom. The book royalties were rolling in, giving Rylan licence to exploit his fame, with advertising deals. Emilie glared, her husband sold his identity, the videos had followers unimpressed, agreeing with her, this bold move would prove a negative influence in his desire for fame and wealth.
Motherhood, Emilie assumed she would relish the excitement, approaching it with a flare and a romanticised ideal. Eliza had other plans, despite her size she was fast, wriggling into the closet, munching on the stolen cake, giggling at her father’s confusion. Sugar highs brought frustrating lows, Eliza stomped, throwing her toys, crying, Emilie wrestled her daughter, desperate for her to settle. Biting her bottom lip, Emilie laughed at Rylan, he had been eyeing up the last slice of cake, how could his daughter have given him the slip and devoured the last morsel.
Eliza giggled; Emilie smiled confused, cleaning the breakfast bar after another messy meal. Pattering through the kitchen, picture cards in hand, Eliza was ready for her lessons. It had become routine, Emilie’s determination to make her daughter the best she could be, teaching her was a full-time occupation. In the evenings Rylan grumbled, Eliza found him fascinating as she sat quietly, her head tilting as he talked into the camera, having learnt the hard way that Rylan hated interruptions. He shifted, shaking the unease, and testing his poor parenting skills, Emilie cooked dinner meaning he was the responsible parent, Rylan wished Eliza would sit in her highchair babbling to Emilie or play with her toys.
Educating her daughter in future skills made only a part of her curriculum, knowing how to tease and torment her father was the source of real fun. Rylan loved to sleep late, Sundays were his chilled day, the lads came over for barbecue and beers; Eliza, with Emilie’s help, loved to disrupt this. Eliza, her hands squeezing peas, crawled under the duvet, Emilie suppressed laughter, Rylan yelled, the frozen vegetables tumbled through his pyjamas. The bottom lip quivered, her eyes, glossy, widened, Rylan held his temper, as Eliza scrambled, hiding by her mother. She peeked, a cheeky smile, relaxed him, he laid down inviting them to join him, giving his mischievous child a huge hug.
By the Grace of Sim Gods 