18 months old

Alex paced back and forth in the cramped doctor's office, gently bouncing baby Ethan in her arms. She brushed his hair to the side, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He looked so much like Emily it took her breath away.

"Ally, would you sit down?" James urged, "You're going to wear a groove in the floor."

She shot him an irritated look. "He's fussy," she reminded him, "The movement soothes him."

He held up his hands in surrender, saying nothing, which was almost more aggravating than having him argue.

Ethan let out a muffled whine from behind his soother (Alex knew she really should have weened him off it by now, but she just couldn't bear to make his life any more difficult than she feared it would be).

"I know, honey, I know," she soothed, rubbing a hand up and down his back.

The doctor burst into the room then. "Dr. Blake and...Dr. Blake," he greeted with a cursory glance at the file. "I've reviewed your son's test results..."

Alex sank into the empty chair, settling Ethan on her knee and bouncing him. She could barely breathe, barely hear past the sound of blood rushing past her ears. She nuzzled her nose into the baby's fine hair, inhaling the sweet scent of his baby shampoo.

"Based on the muscle weakness Ethan's tests showed and the results of his genetic screening, I'm sorry to have to tell you that your son has Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy."

"Wh-what?" Alex stuttered, feeling like she'd been punched square in the chest.

"What's the prognosis?" James asked clinically, almost detached.

"The average lifespan is around twenty-five years," the doctor said gently, "But patients have survived into their fifties. The primary concern is respiratory failure."

Alex gasped, choked. "What do we do? How... How do we fight this?"

James rested a hand on her shoulder and rephrased, "What's the treatment protocol?"

"While there is currently no cure, we're able to significantly improve quality of life by managing symptoms. Physical therapy should help him reach milestones like crawling and walking.

"This isn't about walking," Alex burst out, "I don't care if he ever walks! I care that I don't have to buy a child-sized coffin!"

"Ally, calm down," James said quietly.

"I'm not going to calm down," she said vehemently, but without raising her voice so as not to frighten Ethan. "He's just told us our son is going to die and you want me to calm down!?"

"You're being dramatic, Alex," James insisted. "He can still lead a normal life."

"Twenty-five years is not a life!"

"Alex..." he warned.

"No, James!" Ethan started fussing then and she softly stroked the baby's head as she stood. She held him close to her chest, choking on tears she refused to shed. For a few moments, she met James' gaze before turning on her heel and marching out of the office.

James offered the doctor a look of apology, then chased after his wife. "Alex, stop! We need to talk about this!"

She stopped, whirled around. "No, we don't. You don't think it's a problem that he just handed our son a death sentence and I do – I can't see what we could possibly have left to discuss."

He scoffed. "You're being a martyr, Alex."

"Fuck you, James," she whispered, eyes deadly cold.


"You've got a lot of balls showing your face here tonight," Alex remarked dryly without looking up as the door to her study opened and closed. She didn't need to see his face to know the manufactured hangdog look she'd find plastered there; he was very good at the apology, at saying what he knew he should say, at making all the right gestures. She wasn't sure he was quite as good at actually meaning it, though.

"Alex, we need to talk about this," James said placatingly, crossing the threshold into the room. She could hear his measured footfalls as he crossed the room, approaching behind her, then stopping far enough away to keep a safe distance between them. (Sometimes, she felt like the distance was more than just physical, though she'd never have said so aloud.)

"I think we both made ourselves abundantly clear earlier," she replied, still not looking at him. She was attempting to focus on writing something, but was instead staring at the baby monitor distractedly. She tapped her pen a few times against the desk, crossed something out on the page, went back to staring at the monitor.

He sighed wearily. "I don't want to argue with you. But we need to discuss what happened this morning and how we're going to move forward." She could hear his impatience in his voice; he'd never been all that good with maudlin displays of emotion.

"I don't want to discuss anything with you," she maintained. "Because you're going to accuse me of overreacting and being histrionic and you're going to be clinical and detached and neither of us is going to think very fondly of the other by the time we're done."

"Well, we can't keep doing this..." he said, which was true. "We have to find some way to approach this that doesn't end in us hating each other."

"Not tonight," she murmured, some of the fight apparently bleeding out of her. "I just...I can't do this right now."

He approached behind her, resting a hand on her back, making her flinch as if the contact had burned her. "What are you writing?" he asked, trying to read over her shoulder.

She quickly flipped the paper over before he had the chance. "I'm attempting to compose a letter to Emily," she said matter-of-factly, "To tell her about Ethan's...diagnosis."

"Ally, we haven't heard back from Emily in months..." he started.

"She deserves to know," she interrupted before he could say anything else that might upset her. "He's still her son..."

He opened his mouth as if to argue that point, but somehow managed to resist the impulse. "Well, don't stay up too late. I'll be in the guest room if you need me."


Dearest Emily;

I hope you're well and enjoying your time in London. Assuming you're still in London at all – given the lack of response to my latest letters, I assume they have you stationed somewhere secretive and dangerous. I hope you're safe, at least.

As you know, it's been a year and a half since you gave us the most wonderful gift of your son.

It's been eighteen months of sleepless nights and dirty diapers. Eighteen months of soothing fevers and soothing tantrums. Eighteen months of love and joy like I have never known. Eighteen months that would never have been possible if not for your selflessness.

You would not believe how much he's grown in that time. He's quickly becoming a toddler with his own personality – I can't wait to see who he grows up to be. The terrible twos on the other hand...

He's already an avid reader – his favourite, of course, is the lovely edition of Love You Forever that you recorded. Every time he hears your voice, he looks about to see if you're there. He knows you as his 'belly mama'. I hope one day we can finally introduce the two of you...

He's become very chatty in the last few months. His favourite word is 'No!', of course. But 'Mama' is a close second. He loves music and does his best to 'sing' along with the radio. And forget having any sort of adult conversation with him in the room – he's very precocious and loves to repeat words he shouldn't (I assume he gets that from you...).

He hasn't, however, started walking...

James assured me that it wasn't cause for concern, but I was worried enough to call the pediatrician...who was concerned enough to call in a geneticist.

Emily, I don't know how to give you this news – and I wish it didn't have to be in a letter – Ethan has been diagnosed with a condition called Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy.

You should know that it's X-linked, so any future children you may bear

Do you know if anyone in your family has

The doctors seem confident that he'll lead a relatively normal life, albeit a shortened one. There is, however, no cure.

We're going to do everything in our power to give him the best life possible – just like I promised you when you gave him to us. We're going to ensure he gets the best possible treatment to give him the best possible chance – I know you would do the same.

I wish I didn't have to tell you this. I wish this weren't happening to our son. I wish a lot of things, to be completely honest. Sadly, I don't think I'm going to get them.

I don't regret it, though – adopting him. And I hope you don't regret having him. He's such a loving little boy and I cherish every night when I put him to bed and I hear his tiny voice say, 'Love Mama'.

Even knowing the future, knowing how hard this will be, I'd still choose it every time.

Choose him.

Choose you.

He's a gift, Emily, the greatest gift I've ever received and I'll never be able to thank you enough. No matter what happens, always know that.

~ Alex