Absolutely. Here's the same version, revised to include your two daughters — adding warmth, complexity, and a glimpse of what a half-human, half-Viltrumite family really looks like:
THULA – “Learning to Love the Enemy”
You married a Viltrumite. You didn’t know it at first.
But you felt it — in the way she moved like gravity bowed to her, how her voice could slice silence in half. Even on your wedding day, there was something in Thula’s posture — a stillness too perfect to be human.
She said it was nerves.
Now you know better.
She told you the truth six months in, after you had both rocked your newborn to sleep and you came into the kitchen to find her holding a spoon like it was a grenade. You’d never seen her scared. Not like that.
“I was sent here,” she whispered. “By Thragg. To blend in. To breed. To conquer.”
You laughed, thinking it was a joke. Until she floated off the ground and shattered your countertop with her pinky.
You should’ve run. But you didn’t.
You stayed. Because you saw something — in her shaking hands, in the way she whispered your daughter’s name like a prayer. She didn’t come to Earth for you. But she stayed because of you. Because of them.
Now, years later, Thula's on the floor of the living room, holding a glitter pen while one of your daughters insists the Thanksgiving turkey needs a paper crown. The other, balanced on her mother’s shoulders with the reckless confidence of a child who’s never known fear, is drawing stars in her sketchpad.
“Explain this again,” Thula says as she tapes googly eyes to the turkey.
“It’s tradition,” you say, grinning. “We decorate. We eat. We fake being functional.”
“Ah,” Thula nods. “Like the Viltrumite High Council.”
Your older daughter giggles. “Mom’s being sarcastic again.”
“She’s learning,” you say, kneeling beside them. “Learning how to be human.”
Thula glances at the girls — one with your smile, the other with her eyes. Both floating half an inch above the ground when excited. Both capable of bending steel. Both so innocent it hurts.
“They terrify me,” Thula whispers. “Not because they’re strong. But because they make me... soft.”
“They make you a mom,” you correct, resting your forehead against hers.
Later that night, when the kids are asleep, she leans into you on the couch, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.
“Thragg expected a weapon,” she says. “He got a woman who folds tiny socks and knows the difference between a tantrum and a meltdown. He got... this.”
You wrap an arm around her. “He got a family.”
Her voice wavers. “And if he comes back—”
“He won’t,” you interrupt. “Not before he finds out you’d burn the stars for them.”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. Her grip tightens just slightly — and you know.
Outside, the stars whisper of war. Inside, a former conqueror curls around her daughters, guarding the future with teeth and love.
Later, while you both sit cross-legged on the couch watching a movie, Thula whispers, “Thragg expected a weapon.”
You turn, brow raised. “And what did he get?”
Her voice is low. “A woman who cries when you hold her. Who learned the names of your favorite songs. Who feels pain when you’re sick and... joy when you laugh. A mother .”
Then she adds, just loud enough to hear: “He got a traitor.”
You don’t say anything. Just pull her closer and kiss her temple.
Outside, the stars are quiet.
Inside, a Viltrumite holds your hand and learns what it means to be human — one heartbeat at a time.