Originally written for Ms. Kathy's Haiti Compilation.

I don't own Twilight.

If you're reading Counterpoint but have not read Art After 5, this contains spoilers.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince

Though the science behind it was complete shit, breaking grief into five stages was a revolutionary concept for its time. Society's willingness to embrace Elizabeth Kübler-Ross' model speaks volumes on human needs, even if her book itself failed to do so. We fear death to such an extent that we are willing to accept theory as truth—anything to shed some light on the unknown.

I want to say it's a cliché, but maybe it only seems that way to me. As a psychiatrist practicing in the age of self-help books and , I'm far more aware than most of the prevalence of pop psychology. I think it's because working in mental health gives me a different perspective, until I hear the anonymous whisper from someone in a pew behind me:

"She seems to be holding it together fairly well. She must still be in denial."

I turn to Edward and roll my eyes discreetly. "How many times have you heard someone utter that phrase since we've been here?"

His eyes narrow like he doesn't want to answer, but he does anyway, because I raised him better than to bullshit me.

"Twenty-seven."

The look on his face tells me he has no idea why I'm asking.

"Amazing. We'll break fifty before we make it to the cemetery."

Edward smiles—it's small, but it's there—and it does more to lift my mood than any of the trite words spoken to me this morning by close friends and complete strangers. I may be putting my husband in the ground this afternoon, but I have not lost him. Our love created the beautiful young man at my side, and everything good about Carlisle lives on in him. Edward's wit, humor, awe-inspiring intelligence and romantic idealism all come from Carlisle, as does his ability to fall in love for a lifetime in less than three seconds.

When Edward met Bella, my sister told me I was insane for supporting their relationship. She judged me based on her own inexperience; her children are much younger. She'll eventually learn that one typically does not dictate to a seventeen-year-old, and certainly not one two months away from moving to college. Edward would have pursued Bella with or without my approval; of this I had no doubt. I recognized the look in his eyes all too well—I'd seen it more times than I could count in the eyes of his father. Edward loved Bella the same way Carlisle loved me.

I knew she would hurt him at some point; first heartbreak is inevitable for all of us. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if my words of comfort when that happened were clouded by my non-support of their relationship. Even after Bella broke it off, I didn't doubt that allowing Edward to become involved with her was the right thing to do. He would have done it anyway.

"Is Bella coming?" I ask.

"Yes."

I nod and stare at the altar. I know they're close again, but I haven't seen her since Thanksgiving two years ago when she broke his heart. I hope she's grown since then. I don't think Edward could survive losing her again without Carlisle to lean on. Edward claims he and Bella are not involved romantically, and though I believe that's true at the moment, I know that it's just a matter of time. I'm all too familiar with the power of that kind of love. Regardless of how little he trusts her, he won't be able to keep their relationship platonic much longer.

The minister begins the service, but I pay no attention to his words. My mind drifts, and I remember my husband.

I feel him push me head first into an open cadaver after he passed out—allegedly legitimately squeamish. When he wakes up, he asks me out to dinner and flashes me a smile I'm told worked on countless women before me. I tell him he'd have better luck asking out the cadaver, as she was unlikely to put up a fight.

I see his smile when I opened the door of my apartment on the night of that date—a smile that only grew wider when I told him his reputation for being a ladies' man preceded him and I agreed to dinner only so he would leave me alone. I remember how confused (and bizarrely disappointed) I'd been that he didn't ask to come inside afterward, that he didn't try to kiss me.

I remember how it felt, after our second date, when he did kiss me. I didn't want him to stop, and I didn't care if I wasn't the kind of woman who'd get involved with guys like him. I invited him back to my apartment anyway, hoping to fuck him out of my system. In my bedroom, I tore at his clothes, thinking angry hate sex with him would probably still be amazing, even if I made him double up on rubbers, just to be safe.

I remember how confused I was that he wouldn't have sex with me, how full of shit I thought he was when he claimed I "meant more to him than that." We talked most of the night before I fell asleep, my face against his bare chest, wondering if this insane behavior was normal for him. I woke to him stroking my hair and kissing my cheek. Later that morning he told me he loved me, at which point I promptly told him to fuck off.

I remember when I realized I was in love with him, after he dropped everything to drive me to see my dying grandfather. Then later, when we stopped by my parents' Gloucester City row home, how he avoided answering any questions about his family, not wanting their affluence to cause my parents discomfort. When we returned to my apartment, I told him I wanted him in my bed and in my life, and that I had no intention of kicking him out the following morning—or ever.

I think about how after the first time we made love, I wondered how I could have been so wrong about him. I see his face on our wedding day and when we found out I was pregnant. I hear his anguished cry after we were unable to revive our firstborn son, and the heartbreak in his voice when he admitted that he wasn't sure he wanted to try to have another child because he didn't think he could live through a loss like that again. Then I see the look on his face the first time he held Edward, filled with love and hope.

The minister stops talking, and Edward looks at me. It's time for him to give the eulogy, but he doesn't want to leave my side. I nod my assent, and he moves toward the podium.

"John Carlisle Cullen IV was many things to many people—a son, a brother, a surgeon, a mentor. Setting and individual needs dictated the kind of relationships he would form with those in his life, and I was no exception. As my father, he was loving, supportive, patient and wise. As my best friend, he was—well—none of those things..."

I close my eyes as Edward speaks, no longer hearing the words he uses to honor Carlisle. For me, Edward's existence is tribute enough. I use his time at the podium for my own silent eulogy.

Though we're no longer together, we'll never be apart. Sleep in peace, my love. I'll see you soon.