A/N: To all the readers who are waiting for an update on Dudley Does Right, have no fear, I haven't abandoned it. This is a story I started quite some time ago and just decided to share.

Based on characters created and owned by Stephenie Meyers. I have no rights at all to them.

Esme

Ch. 1

Soon I would hold my baby in my arms. For months I had imagined what he would look like. Yes, he. I knew in my heart that I carried a boy.

In the hours that I labored to bring my son into the world, I recalled the events that led me this point….

From the moment I knew of my baby's existence I was consumed with conflicting emotions. I loved my child with a fierceness I had never known. Yet at the same time, I was plagued by a sense of dread. For so long, I had feared my husband. How could I subject a child to that fear? What other option did I have? I had told my parents of the way Charles treated me, but they insisted that I needed to work harder to be a better wife.

For two months, I planned my escape. I had a small nest egg I had managed to accumulate while Charles was overseas, and I spent those additional months saving pennies, hiding my money in an old stocking under a loose floor board in the kitchen. With each day that passed, I became more and more withdrawn from Charles. I knew that if he ever learned of my pregnancy, it would be so much harder to escape him.

I should have known that the growing tension would fuel Charles's temper. One night at dinner, he started to complain about the simple beef stew I had prepared. Why were we eating such plain fare? Didn't he work hard to provide for me? The least I could do was have a filling meal waiting for him.

Though I had braced myself for it, the slap across the face was still a shock. The force of the blow knocked me to the floor. As if in slow motion, I saw his booted foot moving back in preparation for the kick to my stomach. I managed to roll to my back and take the kick to my hip, protecting my womb and the precious life nestled within.

With a look of disgust on his face, he dumped his remaining beef stew on the floor beside me. I had better learn to be a better wife. His words, while an echo of my parents, were more of a warning than an admonition. Believing he had made his point, he settled himself on the porch to have a smoke before retiring for the night.

I knew I could wait no longer. When Charles returned, I busied myself cleaning the kitchen. Because of his insistence that the house be spotless before I retired for the night, it was not odd that I lingered in the kitchen to finish cleaning while he settled down for the night. When I was certain he was asleep, I crept into the bedroom and quickly, but quietly, gathered several changes of clothes. Thankfully, Charles was a very sound sleeper, a trait he picked up during the war, I suppose.

After I carried my clothes back into the kitchen and stuffed them into a bag I used for groceries, I pulled up the loose floorboard to retrieve my small savings. It wasn't nearly as much as I had hoped to save before I had to leave, but it had to be enough to get me somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

I walked away from my home that night. I hitchhiked to the bus depot in Columbus. Early the next morning, I took a bus to Fort Wayne. From there I took another bus to Chicago, and finally to Milwaukee, where I hoped to take refuge with my cousin.

For almost a month, I enjoyed the peace of my cousin Sarah's home. She and her husband were such loving people, and they were appalled by what I had endured. However, each day I lived with the fear that Charles would come for me. And sadly, my reprieve did not last long. During a conversation with her parents, my cousin inadvertently mentioned me. We knew it was only a matter of time before the information made its way to my parents and then to Charles.

Sarah and her husband gave me as much money as they could spare, and sent me off, wanting no clue as to where I might go. I traveled farther north, pretending to be a war widow. I eventually settled in this small town in upstate Wisconsin. The people here accepted my story and embraced me. I was offered a teaching position and took a room in a house owned by an older woman, Josephine, who had lost her husband and her two sons in the war. Money was tight, but for the first time in years, I felt safe.

My reverie came to an abrupt end with the searing pain that seized my body as my child fought his way into the world. I could hear the midwife telling me to push. Her orders were nothing compared to the demand of my body, knowing what had to be done. The pressure was immense. Josephine held my hand as I put all my remaining energy into the push. Finally, I felt this great relief as my child slipped from my body.

I waited what seemed like forever for that first cry. One moment stretched into two, and panic seized me. Josephine and the midwife looked at each other, and the glance communicated more to me than words. NO. He had to be alright. I had been through so much. So much to protect him. How could this have happened.

Finally, I heard not the squalling I expected from a newborn, but more a quiet mewling. Relief surged through me. I reached for my baby, and the midwife gladly gave him over, needing to finish her duties.

I looked over my precious baby. My son. "I've been waiting for you, Henry."

Henry feebly protested his entrance into this strange new world, missing the warm security of my womb. "Don't worry, baby. Mama will make everything better."

The midwife bustled around the room, cleaning up the mess that accompanied childbirth. I was extremely grateful that she had been able to attend me. With the awful flu that was going through town, I had been afraid that she might have been brought down by the illness.