Alrighties, a very Merry Christmas(belated wishes) to everyone, and a Happy New Year! As a special bonus, ta-da! I'm publishing two new chapters! Yay!

This chapter was actually unexpected, I didn't realise I was writing this until it became too big to fit in one. This chapter was sparked by Just4me's review- really, how could Esme's parents just ignore her pain like that? They seemed to be pretty loving and caring up until that point. So I thought, and thought, and I realised, whatever reasons I had used to convince myself had to be shared with all you wonderful readers. So here's an extra chapter from the PoV of a totally unexpected person. Hope you like it!

A Mother's Love

My name is Victoria Aimée Merton Platt. I am a Mother, a Mother who just assured her advent to hell after this earthly life.

My daughter's story is the more important one. She would grow up and live to be the world's most wonderful mother. Had I known, I would have been proud. But I didn't and I never would.

My story is the least spectacular- from an unexciting age, with unexciting achievements to my credit, except perhaps for birthing such wonderful children.

But my story is important, nonetheless. The story of the mother of the Immortal Mother.

Perhaps you wouldn't understand why I did it. Why I didn't stand up against the harsh world and save my daughter. Why I let my daughter suffer and let her commit the worst sin in this world- that of hastening one's end before its time. Maybe you would do the same, if you were in my place. A Mother's job is the hardest in this world. It always has, and it always will be. And so this little note, this little extract of my mind to understand why Esme became the way she was.

The sound of warm milk being poured into the usual glass soothed me. It was our nightly routine ever since my son had been born, eons ago, it seemed. My hands were still shaking from the confrontation with our daughter. Gently stroking my head in a way that he knew was comforting to me, my husband handed me the glass. "Not too warm, my dear. Just right."

"Thank you, Jeff."

It was like we had rehearsed these lines so much that we repeated it like parrots, night after night, not a break in our routine, no matter the hour we went to bed.

It had begun with my oldest daughter, and then lovely Esme, but soon, it was Jeff who gave me my nightly drink of warm milk to strengthen the bones, and Dr. Humphrey's sticky, sour tonic.

Presently, Jeff, my husband, switched off most of the lights. We always left a little dim one alight due to my fear of the dark. Dear, dear Jeff. He always kept me in his mind with everything he did.

We retired to bed. Though we had repeated our nightly lines faithfully, there was a certain something that made us uncomfortable, so much so that we couldn't even meet the other's eyes. Though it was rather early, our entire household was going to bed. It was as though everyone were asking-"What is the point? What are we to do now that he's gone?"

In the semi-dark, I heard Jeff mumble, "Vicky, my dear?"

I let out a little throaty "Hmm?"

"Do you think… Esme. We did the right thing, didn't we?"

"Yes," I whispered, my voice cracking. "After all, she's not the only one. Men often… And she was being difficult, I suppose. As usual. No wonder he got intoxicated and upset."

"Yes," Jeff agreed, eagerness in his voice- he always had to be explained to and consoled that he was doing the right thing. "Intoxicated, that's true. Perhaps she was overreacting, eh?"

"Perhaps," I lied softly.

We never spoke on the subject again, not until years later when we would learn that she had abandoned him.

Cold. When had I become so cold, so merciless at the fate of my children? I knew the answer, of course.

Life was unfair. I had known that all my life. I had known it when fate snatched my mother away when I was too young. I ha known it when my young, innocent heart was broken when I was jilted by a cad, but forgot it when Jefferson Platt came to rescue me. The kindly, much older, but very caring Jeff had quickly made my life happy. I had completely forgotten when life had blessed me with three beautiful daughters, but was reminded of it again harshly when I lost the last one. Life was always unfair. It had given me another daughter, when we were craving for a son, but as if to make up for that unfairness, it made her perfect.

And then when we were expecting more perfect daughters, it gave me sons- both of increasing beauty, but both were snatched away, as if to make up for bestowing too much on my family.

As it were, life had dealt too much to me to handle. You might argue saying my daughter suffered worse. That is probably true, but as misguided as I was, it was all done with the best intentions.

In my time, when some women were finally daring to stand up against the male-dominated world, I often heard the argument-"Women are naturally stronger than men. Do you think a man could bear the pain of childbirth?" Though I didn't share my opinion on this with dear, old-fashioned Jeff, I agreed with this. The terrifying, yet incredible defining moment of a woman's life is when she gives birth to her child. I needn't mention the pain involved- it is understood- but the sacred bond formed between mother and child runs so deep; it is the bond between Creator and Created, for a woman at that phase of her life, creates Life. And that is the biggest miracle of all.

I see I have gone off on a tangent- a philosophical talk is not what I have to offer, but to understand my actions, you need to understand the philosophy behind it all. Esme was my daughter, yes. So were Eleanor and Elizabeth. Edward was my child as well. As any mother in this world would know, the hardest choice in the world is to choose between your children. When little Edward walked for the last time to give his sister the rings that sealed her fate, I knew not the choice I had to make the very next moment. For when Edward fell, I had to choose between him and Esme.

Some people would ask, why the choice in the first place? If your son was dying, it would grant you bona fide permission to excuse yourself from your daughter's wedding. Where is the hardship in that?

I answer that with another philosophical thought- the times make the decisions, which make the actions. It may have been the twentieth century, but it was still in the shadow of the nineteenth. Had I gone behind Edward, Esme would have come. There was no doubt about that. And the marriage wouldn't happen. And stopping a marriage then would have been an unprecedented disaster. Esme's life would be ruined, Charles' social standing would plummet- somehow, a wedding called off at the altar was worse than a divorce, even though divorce was not a popular topic as well. You may laugh, you may sneer, but such was the case.

I ask you- if Joan of Arc had been in the twentieth century, and she claimed to hear voices in her head, what would you do? Instead of being burnt on the stake as a 'witch' she would have been locked up in a mental institution. Conversely, if the medieval people were introduced to a telephone, or a radio- hearing voices from thousands of miles away as clearly as though the person was right next to you- why, the creators would have been lynched as sorcerers and the thing itself would have been destroyed as an object of 'evil pagan magic'.

In our petty and banal scenario, this same rule applied. If I had stopped Esme's wedding to take Edward away, Esme would have lived to be an old maid, shunned and gossiped against by the society. It was cruel, but I had to stay. I had to stay long enough for the vows to finish and the rings to be exchanged. Then, and only then, could I rush away behind my son. It proved to be a difference in only minutes when I finally reached him, but for many months after his death, I blamed myself for going there too late. Barely five or ten minutes late, but late I was, and he died. For months he became my only child, the son to whom I hadn't given enough time because of which he had died.

And so, when Esme came to us for help- came to me, for I was the only one who could change Jeff's mind- I had nothing to give her. She could not try to impugn on the deep mourning I had set on myself for my son; her time would come later, but she was nothing to me before that. It was a horrible, horrible mistake on my part, for before her time came she was already dead. She was already an Immortal and settling into the role she had always wanted, that of a Mother, but Esme Anne Platt Evenson was dead, and only Esme Cullen remained. But I didn't know that.

All I knew was that Esme was disturbing me with her tears and outbursts as always when I was trying to embroider red pansies- Edward's favourite- on all my handkerchiefs.

When Esme said, "Charles hit me", I was frozen with shock- the inner me hating the presence of a new emotion that did not belong in mourning.

And when she told us what he was doing to her- the worst indignation a woman can suffer- Edward's death had killed enough of me to feel nothing but irritation at her ruining a perfectly solemn day.

So I was unconcerned and unemotional, and I sent my daughter back to hell when we could have saved her.

But my one redeeming reaction, even though it didn't help matters, was this: Esme's parting words, the last few words I would ever hear from her drove home. Her cold "Very well" chilled me- the layer of ice on my heart cracked. She sounded like me- so much like me that it frightened me. It meant that a part of her had died, too.

Which was why I cried myself to sleep that cold night, after our usual nightly dialogue. The whole ceremony had associated itself with Esme in my mind so nastily that I never did consent to take the milk and medicine ever again. Not without getting an image of lovely Esme lying in a dark corner, bruised and bleeding and sobbing and alone.

But as I say, my iced-over heart cracked, but didn't melt. I never helped Esme in her troubles and she certainly never came back asking for help. And that was how I let another child of mine die.