Michonne used to be preoccupied with the latest collections of the major fashion houses. After one trip to New York fashion week, it became a yearly pilgrimage. The money she would spend on an up-do of her freshly tightened locs, a golden palette of eye shadow, a new pair of stilettos, or leather or silk or cashmere would not be considered reasonable by anyone. Even after the turn, when she was alone for so long, and ran into a walker with a particularly posh outfit, she would put it down then stand over the corpse- maybe adjust the collar- and think, "Not a bad way to go. That blouse was fire, honey." Sometimes, she would even give the double deceased a congratulatory snap as she walked away.

Judith brought all of that back for her now. The little one had come across a fashion magazine a few months ago and fell in love with the bold magenta print of a wrap dress and the tall heels on a pair of emerald green platform shoes. She loved the hairstyles: the neatly slicked buns, the loose pastel pink curls and the spirals of a bouncy, flouncy rod set. Judith would apply the tip of her little fingers to the sheen of the page as if she could feel the hand-painted designs and appliqués of the manicures displayed or rub off the gloss a model wore in a picture to put on her own lips.

Michonne had given extra thought to supporting her daughter's love of fashion, though. Now a mother of a young girl, the harm the industry had caused to the collective self-esteem of womankind was something she always hated. She never wanted her baby to feel less than.

After speaking to various women about the matter, Michonne came to the conclusion that strong women like Carol, Tara and Maggie were built in a community of supportive family, that includes both, women who are not taught to compete with one another and men, who know that the value of women goes infinitely beyond what they look like. Besides without the poison of monetary gain perpetuating a flawed view of what a woman needs to be beautiful, Michonne saw style as an artistic outlet for her 4 year old. She was a little biased, though, in her opinion of the issue because she was a total addict for all things runway. Sometimes at night, when it was Rick's turn to read the bed time stories, it would just be Michonne, a protein bar, and one of Judith's magazines keeping her company until her husband came to bed.

Michonne took advantage of a rainy day to play in a bit of make up with Judith. She had done Judith's makeup; a little mascara, lip gloss and the slightest hint of blush. Judith had overdone her mother's face with a lot of everything they had accumulated from runs. Michonne had looked into the mirror at the finished product and been shocked. Judith's applications were heavy-handed yet surprisingly steady for her little fingers. Once she learned to edit, Michonne figured, she'd be pretty good. Still she hoped Carl or Rick (mainly Carl) wouldn't walk in and see her painted like a Warhol because she would never hear the end of it.

"Mommy why don't I look like you?"Judith asked bluntly, standing in front of Michonne, looking in the mirror as her mother gathered her golden hair to a ponytail.

Since Judith started to call Michonne 'mommy', she had thought more than once about how she would respond if her little blonde-haired, blue-eyed, rosy cheeked baby girl ever wondered why she didn't look like her mom or dad. Conversations about how much to tell her and when kept Michonne and Rick up some nights.

One of those long discussions being triggered by Carl nonchalantly telling them, as the couple washed the dishes together, that Judith had asked him why he calls Michonne by her name instead of mommy.

"What did you say to her?" They'd both asked, feeling the weight of the inevitable inquisitiveness of a growing girl in world of harsh realities.

"I asked her why she calls you 'mom'." Carl replied, taking a bite of a peanut butter and strawberry preserve sandwich at the kitchen island. His parents impatiently watched him chew, both taking deep breaths and giving irritated sighs, eager to hear the answer he gave her.

He raised his hand to take another bite. "Carl!" Michonne called to him in a high-pitched tone, more than a little perturbed.

"C'mon! I'm hungry!" he managed through the thick homemade peanut butter, though he'd just eaten dinner an hour ago.

"Carl," Rick paused to chuckle, understanding both the ferocious hunger of a teenage boy and the relentlessness of a parent trying to acquire pertinent information. He'd thrown the dish towel over his shoulder and continued calmly, taking some of the edge out of the air, "What did your sister say?"

"She said 'because she's my mom'. And then I said, well, I call her Michonne because she's my Michonne." He stated dryly as though he'd told them this a thousand times. "She didn't say anything after that. Can I eat?"

Michonne had anticipated this question about the differences in their appearance. She thought about what she would say: something sage and empowering. But as she combed Judith's hair in front of the mirror and the question was finally asked, Michonne fell silent. Maybe it was the bare presentation in the mirror of their blatant dissimilarities, maybe it was the sudden atmospheric change in the lightness of their play time to an issue that was so heavy in the old world Michonne had known, maybe she was startled by the question because of the absolute and effortless love that she felt for Judith which caused her to look at her as her very own daughter- she wasn't sure what happened.

Her planned narration foiled, she looked down at Judith's upward gaze, "You don't think we look alike?" Michonne asked with a raised brow in a sign of wonderment.

"No, mommy. We don't look the same." Judith said firmly.

"What!" Michonne gasped, "Look at this!" She pinched the little button in the middle of Judith's face, drawing her eyes to their reflection. "Your nose is on your face just like mine... it's even in the same spot as mine." Judith turned away from sink to face her mother. Michonne kneeled in front of her and took the opportunity to nuzzle the tips of their noses together. "Your eyes, your mouth... 1, 2, 3, 4, 5... 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 same fingers, two arms and legs... "Wait," Michonne breathed, "how many toes do you have?"

Judith giggled, bringing her foot forward, toe to toe with Michonne's, she counted. "Same!" Judith announced with pleasure.

"Same!" Michonne confirmed with a hi-five. Suddenly this was not the "discussion" Michonne had thought it would be. They were laughing hard, counting ears and knees and elbows and comparing tickle spots. "What's the first thing daddy says to us when he comes home?"

"He says," Judith deepened her voice to imitate her dad, "'Hello, beautiful ladies'" and just to be thorough- as she tended to be- she added, "And then give us kisses."

"So daddy thinks we look alike." Michonne shrugged. "He thinks we're both beautiful. And daddy should know, with his gorgeous self."

"But our hair is different." Judith made a point to say as she giggled at her mother's compliment of her dad, though she really didn't care if things made sense anymore- she was having so much fun.

"Well..." Michonne cocked her head sideways contemplating, "...I guess. But your hair is different from daddy's too... and Carl's is different... And my hair is different from everybody else's."

"Uncle Ezie's hair is like yours." Judith remembered.

"I beg your pardon." Michonne pressed her palm to her chest, pretending to be violated. "Uncle Ezie's hair is gray! I don't have a gray hair yet!"

"Daddy's hair is gray like Uncle Ezie's." Judith declared, now simply playing a game of 'match the hair', rather than making a point.

"But daddy is my boo." Michonne winked. "People are always changing hairstyles and hair color. Nobody has the same hair, Jude." Michonne made her closing arguments.

"Unh-huh, the twins do." Judith realized. She grabbed the baby monitor to show proof. Her sleeping brother and sister lay in their cribs, tiny and sweet, both with full heads of sandy brown hair swirled in quarter-sized curls; darker than Judith's hair but lighter than Michonne's. "They look the same." She gave her mother an adorable side-eye and waited for a justification of that.

"The twins are twins, Jude." Michonne offered with ease. "Do you have a twin?"

"Unh-unh." Judith said and gave up that fight. But she launched a new crusade, "Can you and daddy make a twin for me?"

Michonne sighed, "Jude, it doesn't work like that."

"How does it work?"

Just then Rick peeked in. He had followed their voices to their master bathroom. "Hello, beautiful ladies."

"Hey, daddy."

"Hey, boo."

Michonne gave him a bright pink kiss on the lips, making Judith laugh at her dad's colored lips surrounded by his gray whiskers. Rick finally noticed his wife's face as he stood upright from planting a kiss on Judith's cheek. Michonne saw him stifling laughter at her makeup and gave him a smirk right back, knowing she was about to seal his fate,

"Judith wants us to make her a twin." She summarized, "I told her it doesn't work like that. Maybe you can explain it to her."

Realizing the set up, Rick's jaw dropped, making Michonne crack with delight. But he came back with a checkmate. He grabbed Michonne by the waist, pulling her close to his side and said "Well, 'fore we tell her no, we should at least try… right?"

Before Michonne could respond, Judith was running out of their room to some other distraction. She called back a mantra that Rick frequently used to encourage her, " Just do your best, daddy, and you win!"

"I will, honey!" he called out after his daughter as he kissed Michonne's neck, making her squeal and playfully slap his butt. "We're gonna win today." He chuckled mischievously.

He locked the bathroom door and lifting Michonne to sit on the bathroom counter, his voice rumbled low against her collarbone, "C'mon. Jude says for us to do our best," he brought his eyes up to meet hers with a wink, "… can't let her down."