It wasn’t until after Holly was born that I realized how much I didn’t know about Camilo.
Not the surface things — the way he moved through a jungle like he’d been born in one, the way he laughed with his whole chest, the way he could read a relic like it was a familiar story.
I mean the real things.
The things people build their lives around.
“I have a daughter,” he said.
We were in my living room. Holly was asleep in the crib, the house dim and soft. Camilo’s voice was steady, not hesitant, not defensive — just honest.
“Her name is Lola.”
A teenager now.
Born right after he finished high school.
Her mother gone almost immediately.
Camilo raising her alone.
Holly had a half‑sister.
A whole other life connected to hers by blood and timing and a man who had never pretended to be anything other than what he was.
“Does she know about Holly?” I asked.
He nodded. “She does. She’s figuring it out. But she’s strong. She’ll be okay.”
Sometimes, when he comes to see Holly, he stays the night.
He’ll hold Holly until she falls asleep, lay her gently in her crib, and then follow me to the bedroom with that quiet certainty he carries like a second skin.
And in the morning, he always goes back.
Back to Selvadorada. Back to Lola.
Back to the life he built long before mine crossed into it.
Holly feels everything.
Not in the dramatic way some babies do — not loud, not explosive — just deep. A sharp tone of voice, even if it isn’t meant for her. A “no” when she reaches for something she can’t have. A shift in my expression she interprets as disappointment.
It all lands on her like a weight.
She crumples fast.
Lower lip trembling.
Eyes filling.
Whole body folding inward like she’s been personally wronged by the universe.
I’ve learned to move slower.
Softer.
Gentler.
Not because I’m afraid of upsetting her, but because she listens with her whole heart, and I don’t want to bruise it more than necessary.
Food has been the hardest part.
I’ve been trying to let her taste new things — tiny bites, tiny spoons, tiny experiments in flavor. So far, she dislikes everything except ice cream. Not even mildly dislikes. Full‑body rejection. The kind where she shudders, glares at the spoon, and then looks at me like I’ve betrayed her.
But ice cream?
Ice cream is her great love.
She lights up for it — eyes wide, hands reaching, little squeaks of anticipation. She eats it like it’s the only good thing that has ever happened to her.
Which makes the “no more” part… complicated.
The moment the bowl is empty, she looks at me with hope so pure it almost hurts. And when I tell her she can’t have more — because she’s a baby, because she needs real food, because I’m trying to be a responsible adult — the tears come instantly.
Not angry tears.
Not tantrum tears.
Just heartbreak.
Like I’ve taken away the sun.
I scoop her up, hold her close, sway until her breathing evens out. She presses her face into my shoulder, small and warm and wounded, and I whisper that she’s okay, that she’s safe, that we’ll try again tomorrow.
It didn’t take long before I knew.
The same heaviness in the mornings.
The same quiet certainty in my body.
The same way the world felt slightly tilted, like it was making room for something new.
I wasn’t surprised.
We weren’t trying, but we weren’t trying to prevent it either.
Life has a way of filling the spaces you leave open.
I took the test alone in the bathroom, Holly babbling in her playpen down the hall. When the result appeared, I murmured to myself. “Here we go.”
Holly squealed at something on the floor — a dust mote, a shadow, the edge of her own foot — and I went to her, scooping her up and pressing a kiss to her soft hair.
I told Camilo the next time he came by to see Holly.
He was sitting on the floor with her, letting her pat his face with those tiny, curious hands. She was in a good mood — no tears, no hurt feelings, just soft coos and wide eyes.
“I’m pregnant,” I said.
“Okay,” he said.
He lifted Holly into his arms, holding her close like he needed the grounding. I sat beside him on the rug, letting the silence settle between us.
“We should talk about… us,” he said.
I didn’t flinch. “Yeah. We should.”
He shifted Holly to his shoulder, his voice low. “We’ve kept things casual. I know that. But with another baby coming… I don’t want things to get messy.”
“Messy how?” I asked, even though I already knew.
He hesitated — not out of fear, but because he wanted to say it right.
“I’m not seeing anyone else,” he said. “I haven’t been. Not since before Holly.”
“I’m not seeing anyone either,” I said. “I didn’t think we needed to say it before. But now… we should.”
He nodded, relief softening his shoulders. “I don’t want to date anyone else. Not while we’re raising kids together. Even if we’re not living together yet.”
“Me neither,” I said.
He brushed a thumb across Holly’s tiny hand, his voice quieter now.
“When Lola graduates,” he said, “we can talk about living together. Really talk about it. But until then… I need to be with her. I need to finish raising her the way I started.”
“I’m not asking you to move in now,” I said. “I’m not asking for anything. Just honesty.”
“You’ll have it,” he said.
He stayed the night.
And in the morning, he went back to Selvadorada.
But before he left, he got Holly up, changed and fed.
He rested a warm hand on my stomach.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said.
This pregnancy has been harder.
Morning sickness that doesn’t stay in the morning. A constant nausea that sits low in my stomach and rises whenever I move too fast or breathe too deeply. Food aversions that make even the thought of cooking feel like a punishment.
I’m still in the first trimester, but it feels longer than it should.
Holly doesn’t make this pregnancy easier.
Everything hurts her feelings.
A toy taken away because she’s chewing on the part that definitely isn’t meant for chewing.
The wrong food offered — anything that isn’t ice cream.
Being laid down for a nap when she’s decided she isn’t tired.
Waking up alone, even for a moment.
She crumples fast.
Lower lip trembling.
Eyes filling.
Whole-body heartbreak like the world has personally betrayed her.
And she needs me.
Constantly.
If I step out of her line of sight, she cries.
If I put her down for more than a minute, she cries.
If I try to sit instead of hold her, she cries.
But the morning sickness doesn’t stop.
So when she finally sleeps — when her tiny body goes soft and warm and quiet — I don’t do anything except lie down myself. I close my eyes. I breathe. I let the nausea settle just enough to feel human again.
When Camilo is here, everything gets easier.
He takes over Holly’s needs without being asked — feeding her, changing her, carrying her around the house so she doesn’t dissolve into tears the moment I step out of sight. He reads to her in that soft, accented voice she loves, and she listens like he’s telling her the secrets of the universe.
It gives me time to rest.
Real rest.
The kind where I can lie down without one ear tuned to the sound of her breathing.
And I need it.
This pregnancy hasn’t let up.
The nausea still hits in waves, sharp and sudden, and the exhaustion sits deep in my bones.
But Holly keeps growing.
She becomes an inquisitive toddler almost overnight — curious, determined, always reaching for something new. She learns to walk with that wobbly, wide‑legged confidence toddlers have, arms out for balance, eyes bright with discovery. She learns to use the potty with surprising focus, proud of herself every time she gets it right.
She’s still sensitive.
Still easily overwhelmed.
Still quick to tears.
But she’s learning the world, and I’m learning her, and somehow we’re finding our rhythm.
The closer we get to my due date, the more Camilo is at the house.
Sometimes he stays the night.
Sometimes he stays two.
Sometimes he just shows up because he knows I’m struggling and doesn’t want me to do it alone.
Lola’s birthday is coming up — right around when the baby will be born — and it’s weighing on him. He wants to be there for her. He wants to be here for us. And he’s trying to figure out how to be both without failing either.
One night, after Holly finally fell asleep and the house settled into that soft, late‑evening quiet, he sat beside me on the couch.
“We should talk about living together,” he said.
I nodded. “I know.”
“We’re doing this,” he said. “We’re raising kids together. We don’t need marriage. Not unless we want it. But… I want us in the same house.”
“Me too,” I said.
But there was something else.
Small things at first — a book missing from the shelf, a trinket gone from the dresser, a decorative bowl I knew I’d placed on the table suddenly nowhere to be found.
At first I thought I’d misplaced them.
Pregnancy brain.
Exhaustion.
Distraction.
But the pattern kept repeating.
And the more often Camilo stayed over, the more often something disappeared.
One evening, after Holly was asleep and the house was quiet, I asked him.
“Camilo… are you taking things from the house?”
He froze — not guilty, not defensive, just caught.
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor. “I didn’t want you to find out like that.”
“Find out what?”
He took a breath. “I’m a kleptomaniac.”
“I go to counseling,” he said. “I’ve been working on it for years. I can control it most of the time. But stressful situations… they make it harder.”
Stressful situations.
Like a new baby.
Like a second one on the way.
Like trying to balance two families and two countries.
“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to take from you. I don’t want to be that person in your home.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“I didn’t want you to think less of me,” he said. “Or think I’d steal from you on purpose. It’s not like that. It’s… an urge, a compulsion. I’m working on it. I swear.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I said. “But no more secrets.”
He nodded. “No more.”
By the time the next ultrasound came around, Camilo didn’t even wait for me to ask. He just showed up at the door, picked Holly up, kissed me, and said, “Let’s go.”
The clinic was quiet that morning.
When the tech turned the screen toward us, I felt that familiar shift — the world narrowing to a single point of light.
“One baby,” she said. “Most likely a boy.”
He reached for my hand, and I let him take it.
Holly babbled at the monitor like she understood exactly what she was looking at.
“One baby,” Camilo said again, almost to himself. “A boy.”
Holly kicked her feet in her car seat, blissfully unaware of how big the moment was.
“We need a name,” I said.
He thought for a moment, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. “What about Rowan?”
“I like Rowan,” I said. “It’s soft. It fits.”
“But not perfect,” he said, reading me easily.
“Not perfect,” I agreed.
“What about Cedar?” he offered.
“Too heavy,” I said. “He doesn’t feel like a Cedar.”
He smiled. “Okay. Sage?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But Sage Bolivar sounds like a poet who lives in the woods.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” he said.
“No,” I admitted. “It’s not.”
We tossed around a few more — Reed, Linden, Jasper — each one close but not quite right. Each one almost, but not the name that settled in my chest.
Then he said, “Aspen.”
“Aspen Bolivar,” I said out loud.
Camilo glanced over at me, and I could see it in his face — he felt it too.
“That’s the one,” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah. That’s the one.”
Holly babbled something that sounded suspiciously like agreement.
I found Holly in the backyard after sunset.
The porch light barely reached the playground, but there she was — tiny silhouette climbing the ladder like she had all the confidence in the world and none of the sense of danger. The air was cool, the sky already dark, and my heart dropped straight to my stomach.
“Holly,” I called softly, not wanting to startle her.
She turned, hair wild, face bright with pride. “Mama!”
I walked toward her as quickly as my swollen body allowed. “It’s dark, baby. We need to go inside.”
She didn’t argue, but she didn’t hurry either. She toddled toward me, feet unsteady in the grass. I reached out a hand to guide her — and that’s when she tripped.
She bumped her nose on the ground — nothing serious, just enough to scare her. Her face crumpled instantly, tears spilling before I could even kneel beside her.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I murmured, checking her over with shaking hands. No blood. No swelling. Just a frightened toddler and a bruised bit of pride.
Normally I’d scoop her up, hold her close, sway until the tears stopped. But the moment I tried to bend, a sharp pain wrapped around my belly — low, deep, unmistakable.
Labor.
I steadied myself, breathing through it, then took Holly’s hand.
“I can’t pick you up right now,” I whispered. “But I’m right here. Walk with me.”
She sniffled, still hiccuping little sobs, but she nodded. Her tiny fingers curled around mine as we made our slow way back to the house.
Inside, I needed to get her settled — fast. Another contraction rolled through me, sharp enough to make me grip the edge of the counter.
“Okay,” I breathed. “Birthday presents. Let’s do that.”
I led her to her room and showed her the new toys I’d been saving:
- a bright wooden xylophone
- stacking rings in soft pastel colors
- a toddler crafting table
- a coloring pad with thick crayons she couldn’t break
Her eyes widened, tears forgotten. She went straight for the xylophone, banging out chaotic little notes with absolute joy.
I lowered myself onto the couch, breathing through another contraction, hand pressed to my belly.
It was time.
I called Camilo.
He answered on the first ring. “Clara?”
“It’s happening,” I said, voice tight. “Now.”
“I’m coming,” he said. No hesitation. No questions. Just certainty.
Minutes blurred.
Pain sharpened.
The room felt too small, too bright, too everything.
And then the door opened.
Camilo rushed in, breathless, eyes wide — and froze when he saw me.
“Clara,” he said, voice low and steady. “I’m here.”
He barely had time to cross the room before the next contraction hit — the one that told me Aspen wasn’t waiting for anything or anyone.
Camilo helped me to the bedroom where Aspen Bolivar came into the world.
Some days I feel patient.
Some days I feel like I’m barely holding it together.
I understand what Camilo needs to do — I do. Lola deserved his full attention while she finished school. He’s a good father. A loyal one. And I never wanted to take that from her.
But wanting him here and understanding why he can’t be here are two different things.
And lately, I’ve wanted him here.
Because two babies in the house is… a lot.
Holly’s nightmares have gotten worse — spiders, always spiders. She wakes up shaking, sobbing, clinging to me like she’s drowning. And Aspen, sweet Aspen, has decided that biting my boob is his new way of expressing enthusiasm.
He looks delighted every time he does it.
I do not.
He’s not a newborn anymore.
He’s an intense infant — big feelings, big reactions, big everything. If he’s happy, he glows. If he’s upset, the whole house feels it.
Between the two of them, sleep is a luxury I don’t remember having.
Then my mom called.
Her voice was soft, too soft.
“Grandma Scarlet passed away.”
Old age. Peaceful. Expected.
But grief doesn’t care about timing.
I sat on the floor with Aspen in my lap and Holly pressed against my side, and I cried quietly into their hair.
I wanted Camilo.
But he was with Lola, helping her prepare for finals.
I didn’t tell him right away.
I didn’t want to pull him away from her.
I just held the babies and let myself feel small for a moment.
Somehow, in the middle of all this, I completed the Rosebud achievement — §1,000,000 in a single household. I stared at the number for a long time, numb and amused at the same time.
I’m exhausted, grieving, overwhelmed…
and apparently very wealthy.
Life is strange.
Camilo officially entered middle age last week. He took it well. I’m right behind him — my birthday is in a few days. I don’t feel old. I just feel worn.
Then Lola graduated.
She got into university — proud, excited, ready for her next chapter. And with that, something in Camilo shifted. A weight lifted. A door opened.
He came over that evening, the babies crawling and toddling around us, the house loud and chaotic and alive.
“I can move to Newcrest now,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. “Come home.”
Simmers!
If you’re interested in writing and/or reading sims stories, participating in fun competitions and events, joining a friendly and welcoming community, completing legacies and challenge and earning medals, or just having a great place to discuss Sims 2, Sims 3, or Sims 4, then there is a place for you at the
Boolprop.net Forums
Discover more from Love My Sims
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Be the first to comment