The Stewarts Family (and other shenanigans)
Sims player fourteen generation deep into a legacy. Here's their story! Also, art and builds.
As I said, I get better every day, but I still make mistakes. But my morale and determination are harder to shake than a skeleton’s disembodied hand, and I’m prepared for everything the dead omiscans have to throw at me.
I am stubborn.
And I actually enjoy this a lot more than I probably should.
Here’s the hall at the end of the dark corridor. I dropped a few lamps to help me navigate in the darkness, and it gives the place a warm, but eerie look. The yellow light bounces from golden statues to cryptic omiscan murals, and then back to the shiny blue of another lapis skeleton.
I’ve often admired the solemnness of the ancient temple and the beauty in the sturdy, ancient architecture, but rarely have I felt dwarfed by a room like I am now. I feel like a speck in History, a curious individual who has no impact on the grandiosity of the past, and cannot begin to grasp any of it anyway.
I stare the blue skeleton down. The way its scales reflect the light is hypnotizing. It looks so — dare I say — life-like. I have to admit part of the reason I examine it so thoroughly is I half-expect it to lift an arm to shake my hand. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.
I don’t trust you buddy. You’re a work of art, but I don’t trust you.
Once I’m fairly sure I won’t be jumspcared by a stone skeleton armed with a spear, I finally start examining the mechanisms around the little room.
Probably still distracted by the hollow gaze of the blue skleton, I make a mistake — a potentially fatal mistake.
I pulled the wrong lever, and now my life only depends on one thing: the quality of my reflexes.
We finally cross the doors previously protected by the bright blue electric sparks, and soon I realize there’s something different about this part of the temple. I almost miss the opening in the wall, the space so small I couldn’t fully extend both of my arms, as the stones on either side are much too close.
Yet it’s through this hole in the wall, this corridor that gets darker with every step, that I’ll find the hall where the next enigmas await.
It’s Love Day, and Hugo has a whole program in mind.
I gave him my surprise later that day, as soon as we woke up, in a pink envelope, but he wouldn’t tell me his. When the clock rang 3, he only told me to get ready with the fanciest attire I could find, and he drove us to the Newcrest Opera House.
The Opera House is a gigantic building surrounded by a hedge maze, and it somehow manages to be more imposing than any Uptown building — it has this majestic feel that only centuries past can give a monument.
He leads me, not to the pit where most of the seats are, but to the box of honor, facing the orchestra, except several feet above the stage.
And then we hear the most beautiful piece of music; it rings through my bones and vibrates against my shivering skin.
I am in awe.
But really, none of all of this mesmerizes me as much, as the simple yet unique — absolutely unique — sight of Hugo in a full dress suit and bowtie. Not only because he did not wear a tie even for our own wedding; but because he looks absolutely stunning.
Posing on the steps. There’s a millennial building behind me, but I really only have eyes for Hugo.
My dapper husband. Never thought I’d use these two words in the same sentence.
When we walk inside, I do have to stop and take in the beauty around us. It’s all so grandiose!
Clearly, Hugo has visited before, or he’s much harder to impress than I am.
Our private box, far from the crowd.
Stolen kisses before the show begins.
And then when the show is over, sweet whispers on the Opera House’s balcony.
This, I hear through Shanna and Marie. They tell me that Marie holds zero grief against me or Hugo, but she spends all of her time with Romain, and Romain will have nothing to do with us.
On the other side of San Myshuno, Romain and Marie have a singing duo that’s struggling to get heard. They do opening nights in Brindleton Bay and Windenburg, but they’re still a long way away from the shadow of a song on the radio.
It’s not for lack of trying. They spend most of their time writing, training, and recording, though it would seem they do not always agree on the process or the product.
And it’s harder to focus with a tiny little toddler who’ll just decide to wreak havoc from time to time.
When little William has a fit, it’s often Marie who picks him up.
It’s not that Romain doesn’t care for the kid, Shanna explains, diplomatic as ever. But their lack of success is getting to him, and the more time passes, the angrier he gets, and the angrier he gets, the less he wants to be around William.
In short, Charlotte intervenes, Marie has to be the grown-up.
There are worse places to be struggling artists.
Marie and Romain are renting a loft in the Arts District, but most of the rent comes from old family money, both the Barcet and the Stewarts. Which, it would seem, only angers Romain more.
Romain and Marie are both always waiting for the big break — so their phones are always turned on.
So when Marie receives a call that makes her heart speed up, she can’t wait to tell Romain.
Who just walked into the living-room, but for the sole purpose of complaining about the noise William is making.
“How am I supposed to practice? Can’t he stop being so loud?”
“Rom, he’s a kid, kids are always going to be loud.”
“Listen, you have to take a break anyway, I just got some news and you’ll want to hear it!”
“It’s a producer. He saw our video on SimTube, and he wants me to work on an album for his label!”
“Wait, you? As in only you?”
“But we’re a duo! That’s absolute bullshit.”
“I thought you’d be happy for me.”
From what I hear, Romain and Marie have more than one issue to work through.
Hugo spends most of his time alone…
We had forgotten that risk.
Dizzy with how easy it was to bring Hannah into the world, how free of misery, how reassuring the doctor had been, and how beautifully perfect everything had been…
We got confident. And surprised, all over again, when everything went wrong.
We hadn’t told Hannah yet about the sibling she would have, and it was a blessing — we didn’t have to tell her they would never come.
She did pick up on our emotional cues. Children tend to do that. She was more easily angry and generally harder to take care of. As if she wanted to regain some of our attention. But there was only so much we could do. We were temporarily joined by a nanny Hannah unfortunately disliked, to try and help us with the immense load.
For the first time in years, I went back to my diary, and stained it with rivers of tears.
Hugo now spent most of his days hiding in the bed.
We barely ever talked.
The daily yoga makes it easier to remain calm with Hannah.
Sometimes, she joins, and I think it does her good too.
Hannah is a peach, but like any kid, she has her bad days.
And her bad days can get terrifying.
Even then I want her to understand that what I feel for her is never more anger than it is love.
Sometimes I wonder if the feeling is mutual…
But I’m always sure I love explaining the problem to her more than getting angry. My grandma raised us all to teach with our heart, and I want to pass that on.
Hannah’s got pretty good vocabulary already, but she’s committed to learning more.
We’re both looking forward to the days when we’ll hope she just stops talking.
Her and her sibling, who’s currently busy making me hate my morning toast.
The Stewarts Family (and other shenanigans) 