TW: Heavy chapter ahead. Infant death, abuse of patients, stigma, and discrimination for mental health issues.

1977

Esme Masen harbored a secret in her heart for nearly five decades: from age fifteen onwards, she was bitterly jealous of her sister Elizabeth.

Elizabeth had always been the prettier one. Next to tall and willowy Elizabeth, Esme looked stout, chubby, and short. Elizabeth had lucked out, getting their mother's striking emerald eyes and waves of dark red hair. Esme was diligent, and responsible, and worked hard to be perfect. Despite that, Elizabeth was the favorite. Elizabeth's natural talent for music elated everybody and their grandma.

Edward Masen always gloated about Elizabeth's prodigal piano talent. Esme grew up on stories about how Elizabeth had mastered the Turkish March by ten, and the Moonlight Sonata by age 15. Edward and Grace Masen had been delighted - until Elizabeth declared she wanted to be a professional concert pianist. She wove an admissions letter to the French National Conservatory. The rationale was that Chopin had done his best work in France.

Edward Masen shit a brick.

Edward forgave Elizabeth eventually, and she went back to being the favorite. Esme was powerless: she had pursued law, in a desperate effort to do the right thing. Despite that, her father's eyes never twinkled in quite the same way over Esme.

All of her life, Esme felt workaday and boringly normal. It was entirely her sister's fault. Esme always despised her sister's oddly charming, quirky, and flighty passions – almost more than her sister's beauty. Both sisters were beautiful in their ways, as the daughters of attractive parents, but only Elizabeth was ravishing.

Esme found and dated Carlisle first. It had only been one date. Carlisle had not kissed her: he nodded goodbye politely and held out his hand like he wanted to shake hers.

Esme was certain it could have turned into something more. In 1977, the Cullens invited the Masens for a weekend stay at Wharton Bay, along with two other congressmen and their wives. Begrudgingly, Elizabeth had joined her parents and sister for a single dinner.

The entire dinner, like most things in Esme's life, was commandeered by Elizabeth – Elizabeth's beauty and Elizabeth's genius.

At the time, Elizabeth was in a passionate and whirlwind relationship. Elizabeth's boyfriend was an Italian training to be a professional conductor. Elizabeth had regaled the dinner party with a story about him. Senator Masen cut her short. "There's no stability or money in conducting," Ed Masen had barked, to laughs from the entire dinner party, but Carlisle. "And you need someone with a stable profession, given what you have chosen to pursue."

"Daddy, he's brilliant," Elizabeth had sworn. "He's already mastered Stravinsky and Wagner, and that's exceptionally challenging."

Everything about Edward Masen's expression indicated he could not have given less shits.

"What makes a good conductor?" Carlisle had asked quietly, voice intense. Elizabeth turned to look at him directly, and Carlisle's breath hitched.

Elizabeth began a passionate spiel about music theory and the need to master several instruments, highlighting Massimo's talents. "Massimo plays everything – violin, oboe, cello, piano, even the flugelhorn. He's a phenomenal violinist. He has this…understanding of music, a depth I've never seen before. He can dissect a score, analyze the counterpoint, the harmonic progressions, like it's breathing. He hears a melody once, and boom, he can recreate it and - "

Edward Masen's jaw was clenched, making Congressman Congress laugh good-naturedly.

"Lizzie," Grace Masen interjected sharply, clearly wanting Elizabeth to stop bubbling about her boyfriend. "Wouldn't it be nice for you to play something for Mr. and Mrs. Cullen and their guests?"

Esme gritted her teeth, anticipating that the evening would become a showcase of Elizabeth's talent and beauty.

She was proved right.

At her mother's behest, Elizabeth staged an impromptu professional concerto. She played classics like Voices of Spring, the Moonlight Sonata's third movement,and Fantasie Impromptu. She had even taken requests off people's terrible humming.

"Play something American!" A House Representative from Tennessee chortled.

"Something American…?" After a beat of thought, Elizabeth started playing Joplin's The Entertainer, to charmed laughter. Even Victoria had been genuinely enchanted.

"Well," Elizabeth said with a sheepish grin, once she finished. "Mrs. and Mrs. Cullen, thank you for a lovely evening. I have to get going."

"Get going?" Edward Masen barked. "Go where?"

"Daddy, I told you. I have a thing in Manhattan tomorrow."

"A thing? What thing? What is that supposed to mean? It's the middle of the night! It's the middle of December!"

Elizabeth was halfway through putting on a long white coat and draping her long red hair over it. Carlisle was looking at Elizabeth with terrified fascination – like she was an alien creature from another planet.

"I'm subbing in for a friend for a production of The Nutcracker."

Edward Masen turned purple. "This is exactly the kind of thing I warned you against," he began to fume, but his wife stopped him. "This unstable nonsense, Elizabeth!"

"I have a train ticket for 9.0o PM," Elizabeth said breezily, and Esme hated the insolence in her tone. "I have to be there at 10.00 AM tomorrow for a rehearsal."

"You're getting into Union Station at midnight!"

"Who is the friend, Lizzie? Where are you staying?" Grace asked, kinder and resigned.

"It's Jacqueline. You remember Jackie, Mom? I'm staying at Hell's Kitchen."

"Hell's Kitchen?" Grace asked, paling.

Senator Masen slapped his hand against his face.

"Shall we maybe not do this, Daddy? You're just embarrassing yourself."

"You just admitted you're staying with homosexuals in front half of the U.S Congress," Senator Masen hissed.

"Daddy, they're lesbians, not mass shooters."

"I didn't know the Nutcracker Suite had bits for piano," Mrs. Baker, a pleasant and portly Congressman's wife said shyly, interrupting the familial spat.

"It doesn't, Mrs. Baker," Elizabeth said kindly, lighting up. "I'm playing the celeste. It's a little keyboard, but it's not a piano." She hummed the portion of the song in question.

"Oh," Mrs. Baker said dreamily. "Oh, won't you just – won't you just play that bit for us?"

"On the piano?" Elizabeth asked curiously, tilting her head, but smiling. "It won't sound as… It won't sound as whimsical, I'm sorry to say."

"It doesn't matter. I love Waltz of the Flowers."

Elizabeth had played the entire Waltz of the Flowers and the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Once Elizabeth finished, Carlisle quietly and politely offered to drive her to the train station.

Retrospectively, Carlisle had fallen for Elizabeth that day, as hard and as fast as a lead weight falling from a building.

1978

Esme stopped speaking to Elizabeth the day her younger sister admitted she had started dating Carlisle Cullen. The brilliant Italian conductor had broken her heart. She had been charmed by Carlisle, an oncology resident at the time. Grace Masen could not stop gushing. "I think they're perfect for each other," Grace Masen all but swooned, completely ignoring one fact.

"I found him first," Esme had snarled at her sister. In response, Lizzie had pleaded, coming up with a half-assed argument about why Carlisle's date with Esme couldn't count as a betrayal. You're a slut, Elizabeth. I can't believe Carlisle was willing to take you after you slept with half of Europe. hanging up the phone. The bitterness that consumed her never left.

Esme had first refused to attend the wedding. Later, she had accepted to go begrudgingly, holding steadfast her rejection of Elizabeth's offer to act as her maid of honor. "I thought you said he was duller than paint drying," was the first sentence that Esme spat out after a year of the silent treatment.

Elizabeth's face broke into a hopeful smile, evincing how happy she felt to be spoken to again. "I was so wrong. He's just shy, and I was an immature idiot, anyway. Attracted to all the wrong things." There was a dreamy, wonder-filled quality to her voice. "Mimi, he's such a good man. He's the best man I've ever met."

Esme had attended the wedding, to seethe quietly at the bride and pine after the groom.

That year, Esme met Charles Brandon – twenty-five years her senior, and a wealthy stock market trader that benefitted from the deregulation boom. Charles Brandon was a good match: his family was among the Four Hundred, and had founded one of New York's oldest banks. Next to Carlisle, who shone with goodness and gorgeousness, Charles Brandon's flaws were heightened in Esme's mind. Charles Brandon was pox-marked from a battle with bad acne.

Esme thought her sister was as fake as a three-dollar bill. She was certain her sister's trepidation about the fortune and the prestige was cow shit. Flighty, genius Elizabeth had landed one of the most eligible men in the United States. Esme couldn't stomach it.

After the wedding, she refused to take her sister's calls.

Not six months after Elizabeth married Carlisle, Charles Brandon proposed, and Esme accepted. "Are you sure?" Grace Masen had asked quietly, in the middle of a wedding dress fitting, right in front of Elizabeth. Eyes filled with false concern, Elizabeth had echoed their mother. "Mimi, I think you deserve real love."

Esme's ensuing outburst had made Elizabeth – then in her late twenties – cry like a little girl. You put on a goody-two-shoes act for your husband, but eventually, he'll see how rotten you are.

With Elizabeth in attendance, and away from the wedding party, Esme threw a far grander wedding than Elizabeth. Elizabeth's insistence on a small family ceremony always struck Esme as disingenuous – a ploy to convince Carlisle that she had no interest in the fortune.

Esme's first wedding made it to the pages Town & Country. The menu was lavish. Each dinner guest cost Charles at least a hundred dollars: avocado mousseline, beef wellington, French foie gras, and lobster. Looking back, Esme would have redesigned the menu for a more timeless feel.

Charles' and Esme's marriage was never destined to succeed. Though Esme harbored all-consuming, toxic jealousy for her sister, she tried to be a good person. Charles was almost cartoonishly oblivious to the havoc greed could cause. In Esme's opinion, Charles' talent for growing rich on stock market booms came from moral obliviousness.

Despite that, Esme became pregnant quickly.

The one area where Esme succeeded while Elizabeth failed was fertility. Elizabeth had a lot of trouble conceiving, and the doctors had pinpointed Elizabeth was at fault. Elizabeth had multiple fertility issues, and she was as barren as the Gobi Dessert – a little phrase Esme coined and repeated naughtily to a girlfriend. That the phrase "Elizabeth Cullen is as barren as the Gobi desert" ended up catching in their circle was just an unfortunate coincidence.

"Endometriosis and high prolactin levels," Carlisle explained to the Masens, while Esme cradled her pregnant belly like a prize.

"I'm to blame," Elizabeth added bitterly.

In her heart of hearts, Esme felt an ugly sense of satisfaction. It was time. Life had finally thrown a curveball at Elizabeth. Esme, with her pregnant belly, had tried not to gloat.

"I don't think blame is a useful concept, love," Carlisle had said sweetly. "We can't get pregnant."

Esme, in a loveless and difficult marriage, seethed with jealousy. It was impossible not to envy Elizabeth's ridiculous good fortune in her choice of husband.

All but six weeks later, Elizabeth had bounced back gracefully and kindly. Elizabeth and Carlisle began an adoption process.

In a retrospectively very misguided move, Carlisle and Elizabeth announced their decision to adopt at a Christmas dinner held by the Masens in 1985. The couple looked content about the decision, even happy and excited. "So many babies need good homes," Elizabeth said shyly to Carlisle's encouraging nodding, a beautiful smile on her face. "And the treatment options seem a bit..."

"Brutal," Carlisle interjected, kissing her hand. Carlisle had been looking at Elizabeth with such a tender look of support that Esme felt sick with jealousy. Her first (and second) husband completely lacked the quality of romantic charm that Carlisle exuded abundantly.

Mr. and Mrs. William Cullen IV had been infuriated. Carlisle's father, who had started to suffer from dementia, had reacted as if Carlisle had admitted to a violent crime. This bloodline has survived for decades, and I refuse to have it squandered because your wife is defective. The comment was outrageously outdated and cruel. Carlisle had cut ties with his parents. Even Esme had felt protective.

1979

On a cold morning in April 1979, Esme's water broke at 26 weeks.

It wasn't like the movies. A sudden, disconcerting gush soaked the worn fabric of her maternity dress. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at her throat. It wasn't like the movies. No dramatic gush, no heroic dash to the bathroom. It was a subtle, sickening sensation – like a forgotten dam giving way. Wetness spread down her legs, staining the floral pattern a dark crimson. Her vision swam, the once familiar room warping and tilting. Her baby was barely bigger than a grapefruit.

Esme made it to the hospital in a yellow cab. Pale-faced and sweaty, Charles was waiting for her by the sidewalk.

The doctors put her on Ritodrine. Grace Masen and Elizabeth – Elizabeth Cullen – flew to be with her. For nearly three days, Esme was hit by waves of nausea, tremors, and heart palpitations. Filled with dread and panic, she hadn't mustered any semblance of kindness for her sister. Elizabeth's presence irritated the hell out of her. Esme made that patently clear, and Elizabeth was excommunicated from the room.

Alice was born at 26 weeks and weighed 1.4 pounds. She survived fifteen days, and a part of Esme died with her.

During those fifteen days, a sterile bubble separated Esme from her daughter. Inside the incubator, bathed in an unnatural glow, lay Alice. Her head, crowned with a fuzz of downy black hair, seemed disproportionately large compared to her body, which was no thicker than Esme's wrist.

Alice was impossibly tiny, dwarfed by the complex machinery that hummed around her. Veins like delicate spiderwebs were perfectly visible under her translucent skin. Even from a distance, Esme saw the rapid rise and fall of Alice's chest, a testament to the fragile fight for each breath.

Tiny fingers, clenched into fists, twitched sporadically. The baby was trapped in a tangle of wires and tubes that snaked around her like a cruel, mechanical umbilical cord. A respirator, a transparent mask barely covering her button nose, hissed softly, a constant reminder of the fragility of Alice's fight. Esme could see the faintest hint of a pout on those impossibly small lips.

Alice died of complications from a lung infection within a fortnight, and everything in Esme died with her.

The baby's funeral was a blur because Esme was completely numb.

What brought her back to life – what roused her like a zombie, though she remained dead inside – were the details of the small casket. Esme put all her heart and soul into the minutiae of her baby's cradle. It was carved from pale white ash and engraved with a verse of poetry of Esme's own writing. "You are not gone from me entirely, for that which you were is forever a part of me."

Delicate pink roses, the same shade as the flush that had occasionally graced Alice's cheeks, adorned the lid. A tiny white teddy bear - the one they had brought to the hospital in a desperate bid for normalcy - was nestled beside the roses. The teddy bear was lowered with Alice into the ground.

Carlisle and Elizabeth were at the service, and Elizabeth cried when the cradle was lowered. Esme, who had become rail-thin, was so numb that she could not cry. Her irritation at her sister gave her something to focus on that day.

At Esme's behest, she and Charles Brandon divorced. Esme became a very rich divorcée. When Charles Brandon died rather prematurely, in the early 2000s, Esme was surprised to find she inherited Charles' entire estate. At first, she hesitated to accept it. It seemed dirty money to her: Charles had made it as a bloodsucking financier.

1981

Between Alice and Edward, Elizabeth and Esme lived through a kind of ceasefire, a stalemate that brought them closer than they had been throughout their twenties. In the grip of depression, bargaining, and denial, Esme had wondered if karma had been to blame: she had been too happy, felt too much malicious glee, at Elizabeth's infertility. That sense of guilt pushed her forward, and when she tried to reconnect with her sister, she found an empathetic and kind person behind that perfect façade. Finally, she was able to feel a kinship with her only sister. It had taken years, and two kinds of tragedies – that Elizabeth was barren, and that Esme had lost a baby, and was not inclined to have one again.

It was the closest they had ever been since they were little girls.

The fact that they lived in the same city helped. Carlisle was completing his residency at Memorial Sloan Kettering, and Elizabeth was – to Esme's mild chagrin – pursuing a doctorate in music. Now that she was married to a wealthy man, Edward Masen was delighted by Elizabeth's profession. He only had qualms with Elizabeth still performing publicly, with a chamber music group that staged concerts at the Lincoln Center. "Performing's not my cup of tea," Elizabeth admitted. "Even after all this time, I still feel sick before performances."

While the sisters walked arm in arm in Central Park, Elizabeth came up with a suggestion that saved Esme's life. She was a rich divorcée now, and the sisters had become so close that Elizabeth was comfortable teasing. "You're really leaning into the rich divorcée aesthetic, Mim."

Esme wore a puffed-shouldered camel trench coat, and a pearl necklace. She laughed.

"I don't know what to do with all the money, but to buy clothes," Esme revealed, as they walked arm-in-arm.

Near Strawberry Fields, Elizabeth made a suggestion that would change Esme's life. "Why don't you do something with the money?" she said, brightening as the idea struck her. "Something to honor Alice?"

Mulling the idea – feeling sweetness imbue the bitterness - Esme made a very generous donation to a cause she felt close to – the restoration of historic buildings – but that had not cut the ache. "It would be even more meaningful, I think, to pay a tribute related to her life," Elizabeth had suggested softly, even kindly. Impetuously, Esme's reaction had been to be offended.

"There was no life," she snarled darkly.

From the day she was born to her mid-thirties, Elizabeth was frightened of her sister's anger. That day, she held steadfast. "I was thinking of that little boy and his mother, the one you were friends with," Elizabeth said softly, hugging Esme's arm and resting her head on her shoulder. "You, as well. Wouldn't you all have needed lots of support?"

Elizabeth was referring to Kevin. Kevin was another preemie: he was Alice's neighbor in the NICU, and she had bonded with Kevin's mother. Kevin's mother was warned at the NICU that Kevin could develop cerebral palsy. There was a window of hope after Alice hit the seven-week mark, and Esme, terrified, had asked if it was a prospect for Alice as well.

That week in 1981, the idea took shape in Esme's mind.

It was a joint project, though Elizabeth made sure to let her sister have the spotlight. Elizabeth brought on half the Board. Within a year, the Alice Foundation was born. Esme was President of the Board of Directors, and for a while, she acted as Executive Director. It started ham-handedly: first, it was a fund to cover the funeral expenses for low-income parents that lost premature babies. Later, as Esme delved into the stories of the mothers and the babies, she became interested in the issues.

The Alice Foundation paired social workers with the mothers of premature babies, working with the mother-and-baby duo from birth to age five. Where there was infant death, there were support groups and grief counseling. Designing the intervention model and funding the work was the most rewarding thing Esme did in her life – at least before Isabella.

Elizabeth had been right. It brought Esme peace.

1987

Elizabeth broke the stalemate between the sisters by becoming pregnant. Elizabeth had decided to go through with surgery to treat the endometriosis. Less than two months after she and Carlisle were given the green light, Elizabeth became pregnant with Edward.

Elizabeth always won.

Elizabeth went through surgery to treat the endometriosis after an adoption process fell through. Conversations with the baby's mother taught Elizabeth that the mother was giving up the baby out of economic need. Elizabeth set up a trust fund for the baby – with Carlisle's money – and became the boy's godmother. Later, they fostered another eight-year-old. That process fell through, and it destroyed Elizabeth, because she pushed for family reunification in the child's best interest.

"Carlisle says we can't keep going through this," Elizabeth told her sister. She had decided she wanted to try to carry her own baby. "I loved Alice," Elizabeth said softly, and Esme had been downright insulted. "If I loved my niece that much, I can't imagine how much… a mom loves her own baby."

Elizabeth hadn't felt Alice moving inside her. Elizabeth had not felt Alice wiggling. Elizabeth hadn't held Alice in those last few, precious but horrible moments when it was clear she would succumb to the infection.

Esme had been livid, and in the ensuing rage, she had been so violent that Elizabeth started crying. As per usual, Grace Masen took Elizabeth's side. "You're a thirty-six-year-old woman," Grace had barked. "Stop yelling at your sister like you're a 15-year-old, Esme Jean."

When Edward was born, everybody was euphoric and delighted. Elizabeth carried him to term, and Edward weighed nearly eight pounds at birth. Her sisters' baby was perfectly healthy. The baby was finally there. Victoria and William Cullen, especially, had been jubilant. William Cullen set up a million-dollar trust fund, and set aside voting stock in Cullen Corporate Holdings. Victoria had put birth announcements up and down newspapers in the East Coast, setting up Edward for a lifetime of being spoiled rotten.

In retrospect, it had done the baby himself more harm than good.

Esme had expected to hate her sister's baby.

It took her a couple of days to muster the emotional grace to show up at Carlisle's and Elizabeth's little Manhattan apartment, where they cosplayed Middle Class.

Instead, Esme held Edward – eyes unseeing and blue, wrinkly, puffy-faced and red – and cried immediately. They were tears of joy. Immediately, Esme loved Edward instinctively and powerfully. Something magical had happened. All the love she had felt for her baby sister as a child – intense but uncomplicated – was channeled at that baby. Esme felt no guilt, and she felt nothing but goodwill towards the child.

Instead, while holding the baby, Esme had been overcome with longing and love.

Elizabeth was generous and even gracious. It was as if she did not suspect the bitterness and resentment Esme harbored in her heart. "I want the two of you to have each other," Lizzie said simply, as if that were explanation enough. Carlisle was wary and even protective, but Elizabeth insisted, and Esme babysat.

Those early days were filled with quiet intimacy. Esme reveled in the gentle coos and gurgles that filled her days. As Edward grew, their bond deepened. Esme would lie on a quilt spread across the living room floor, Edward nestled on her chest, narrating fantastical stories with wide gestures and exaggerated voices. Edward, captivated, would follow her every movement, a gurgle escaping his lips at each dramatic flourish.

The world became a playground for their exploration. Esme, on her knees, would lead Edward on crawling adventures, a trail of colorful blocks marking their path. She would point out the dancing dust motes caught in sunbeams, transforming them into shimmering fairies. Walks in the park were filled with wonder. Edward, clinging to her finger, would point at the rustling leaves, his green eyes wide with curiosity. Esme would weave tales of talking squirrels and singing birds, bringing the park to life with her imagination.

As Edward approached his first birthday, their play became more interactive. Esme built elaborate towers of blocks, only to watch with delighted amusement as Edward, with a gleeful squeal, would send them tumbling down. They played peek-a-boo, Edward's infectious laughter filling the room as Esme hid behind a pillow, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

By the time Edward turned two, he was a whirlwind of energy. Esme, ever patient, chased him through the house, their laughter echoing down the halls. She taught him simple songs, his off-key renditions a melody sweeter than any concert. They spent afternoons in the garden, Esme patiently helping him plant seeds, Edward's chubby fingers digging enthusiastically in the dirt.

Elizabeth and Edward paved the way in Esme's heart – for Isabella.

Then the news had fallen like an axe. "Carlisle was offered a position at Pritzker in Chicago, and… We think it's for the best. Mimi, my mother-in-law is insufferable. She's been circling like a vulture, and we both want to start a life away from the Cullen thing."

The Cullen thing.

Esme would never forgive Elizabeth, and the truce was – yet again – over. Their trench warfare continued, bloody and agonizing.

1989

Renée Jolie was not the kind of beneficiary the Alice Foundation worked with, but Renée's mother had been incredibly insistent about it. Esme had gone with the social worker into the initial onboarding meeting with Renée Jolie, and she had been shocked. Renée Jolie may have been plastered and sexualized on every national magazine and a Times Square Billboard, but -

Renée Jolie was a girl.

A strikingly beautiful girl, Renée Jolie was more breathtaking in person than on billboards. The image of Renée Jolie in that first encounter – rail thin, but for her protruding belly, with electrifying blue eyes, and a face Esme would come to love more than life itself – became seared into Esme's brain. Renée Jolie's face was perfect, just like Isabella's would be, two decades later.

Years later, looking at Isabella, Esme would feel haunted – in no small measure because Isabella had the same doe-like expression when she felt frightened.

Renée Jolie was no different from dozens of foundation beneficiaries. She was twenty-one when Isabella was born. She had been battling alcoholism, coupled with terrible drug addictions. Renée Jolie had taken cocaine and hallucinogens before becoming pregnant. The social worker had assumed a reassuring and nonjudgemental tone when asking questions.

"Have you consumed any recreational drugs?"

The tone of Renée's voice would haunt Esme in her nightmares. "Yes," she croaked, and her voice sounded like an echo from a grave. Her eyes were bloodshot.

Sitting on an ottoman in the corner of the room, a man grumbled. Esme noticed him for the first time. In his demeanor, the man was no different from hundreds of fathers Esme had worked with. He looked so scared he was pale and haggard. Everything in his expression screamed of anxiety – he couldn't stop fidgeting, couldn't stop glancing at the door. Regret was seared into every line of his face – the kind of regret from wishing a situation had been entirely avoided.

The man glared at Renée Jolie furiously, like she was entirely to blame.

Esme's first impression of Charles Swan was overwhelming dislike. Years in the field, coupled with Esme's own experience, allowed her to sniff shit husbands from a mile away.

"I managed to stop once I knew she was coming," Renée Jolie added, tears rolling down her face. "The withdrawal symptoms were hell, but I – I would do anything for my baby, and I – I hurt her."

The man, over twenty years older than Renée Jolie, harrumphed his agreement. Later, Esme would find that Isabella's father was almost as old as she was. Renée Jolie, by contrast, was barely of age.

"It wasn't your fault, dear," Esme said warmly and maternally. Carlisle's line – blame isn't a useful concept – was seared into Esme's memory. "We can't be sure what the causes were. Some women don't use recreational drugs and still go into premature labor. Some women do use recreational drugs, and still manage to reach full term." Rehabilitation was important for the mothers, but placing blame was entirely counterproductive.

Not a year would go by before Esme would declare the exact opposite in front of a judge. Renée's answers would become ammunition, and if Renée had been less frightened, there would have been a lawsuit.

Renée Jolie was different from any other beneficiary, and that fact compelled the foundation to take the case. Renée Jolie was wealthy. She promised millions of dollars in exchange for help. The Foundation had been reticent to offer help because Renée could have secured it elsewhere – the Foundation's services typically went to low-income mothers with precious few resources at their disposal.

Esme never liked him. For years, it was perfectly clear to Esme that Charles Swan was a useful idiot. Her problems started when she fell for the man – when she made moves so that she would have a perfectly idyllic life with Isabella and her father.

1990

The second Esme laid eyes on Isabella, Esme knew. It was a bone-deep instinct: she had been put on this earth to be Isabella's mother. The intensity of her feelings had frightened her. It was an entirely new feeling, though Esme had worked closely with dozens of babies year after year. It was a feeling that others might have described as a spiritual experience.

Isabella was a beautiful baby. At six months, she was all eyes – and Esme would be delighted to find out that would be a lifelong quality. Her big doe eyes, the color of rich honey, held an intelligence that sparkled beneath long, dark lashes. A mop of dark curls framed a face sculpted with delicate features - a button nose, a rosebud mouth, and a perfectly arched brow. Yet, for all her obvious beauty, there were subtle hints that Isabella's world functioned a little differently.

When cradled, her legs wouldn't quite splay like other babies. Instead, they held a faint stiffness, sometimes scissoring together or kicking out with a sudden, jerky movement. The movement seemed to startle the baby as much as anyone. Her tiny wouldn't quite grasp at dangling toys with the ease of other babies. Her attempts were more of a tentative swipe, a fluttery reach that often missed the mark.

Isabella wasn't floppy or listless, but her movements lacked the smooth coordination of a typical baby. When placed on her tummy, she struggled to lift her head, her back arching slightly as if frustration outweighed her limited strength. en the limited control she possessed, she wielded with a fierce focus, her honey-colored gaze fixed on a desired object with a laser-like intensity.

"Hi, Isabella," Esme said stiffly, her heart hammering in her chest.

Isabella gurgled, and her face broke out into a gummy grin. Those eyes of hers sparkled, and Esme just knew.

Softly, Renée kissed the top of her baby's head. The girl looked ill. Her craggy, pale skin hung sallow from her thin face – as they often did when people had lost too much weight, too quickly. In her face, her eyes were sunken in their sockets.

It was happenstance that Esme decided to follow up on the Higginbotham case – Jolie was a stage name – when Isabella was six months old. The social worker assigned to the case – Esme fired – reported that Renée Higginbotham was trying. She made it Isabella's many physiotherapy and medical appointments. Isabella had been able to latch on and nurse, and she'd become a chubby delight.

"How are you doing, Renée?" Esme asked politely, entranced by the baby.

"Isabella is doing well. She cries a lot during therapy, but she is improving," Renée said flatly, clutching the baby closer. She answered all questions perfectly in a monotone, without any lilt of conversation. Both Esme and the social worker found it strange that her words conveyed intensity, but everything in her affect was flat. "She's so strong. She's the strongest, bravest little person. I'm very proud of her."

"Can I hold her?" Esme asked in a whisper. The most beautiful baby Esme had ever seen. Esme felt a strange sense of covetousness. It pushed Esme into the first breach of those protocols Esme had overseen and designed. Isabella nuzzled the space between Esme's clavicles and clawed at Esme's caramel-colored hair.

The moment sealed all their fates.

Two days later, Esme invited Renée Higginbotham for breakfast at her apartment. In her carrier, Isabella recognized Esme. "Hi, sweet girl," Esme cooed, feeling her eyes burning. "Hi, Isabella." Esme knelt, and Isabella swiped in a fluttery swipe at Esme's necklace.

"Do you mind if I feed her before we eat?" Renée asked, in that strange monotone of hers. Esme's heart squeezed for the girl: she looked exhausted, frightened, and overwhelmed. "I haven't been able to sleep in days,"Renée revealed hoarsely, as she unbuttoned her blouse and freed one breast with her nursing bra. With her tiny hands, Isabella grabbed onto her mother's breast with both hands as she suckled rhythmically.

Over eggs benedict, Esme convinced Renée to let her tag along to Isabella's physiotherapy sessions.

The physiotherapy room was a riot of color and texture. Stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes lined the shelves, a mobile of dancing elephants hung from the ceiling, and brightly colored mats covered the floor. In the center, a large inflatable purple ball bobbed gently.

The therapist lay Isabella on a large inflatable ball, her honey-colored eyes wide and watchful. "Isabella! Look what I brought you today," she said, holding up a stuffed elephant with floppy ears and a trunk that bobbed with a gentle squeeze. The elephant was a patchwork of color.

Isabella's gaze locked onto the elephant. Her head, usually lolling to one side, wobbled with a valiant effort. It was a struggle, the muscles in her neck screaming in protest. But the elephant, with its promise of floppy-eared fun, was an irresistible foe.

With a gasp that escaped her tiny lips, Isabella managed to lift her head for a glorious, wobbly second. Her big brown eyes, wide with concentration, shone with fierce determination. A triumphant gurgle escaped her. In that single, extraordinary moment, all three women burst into tears.

Esme fell madly in love.

Renée, who had been holding the elephant, lifted up her baby and peppered her chubby face with kisses. "Mommy is so proud," she wept. "You're mommy's little warrior. Yes, you are. Mommy loves you so much."

"Ma, Ma, Ma," Isabella babbled happily. "Ma, Ma, Ma."

Esme found herself drawn to Isabella like a moth to a flame. She made excuses to see Renée Higginbotham every week. At first, Renée was intensely grateful.

The baby, all cooing gurgles and chubby limbs, was a constant presence in Esme's periphery whenever she was around Renée. At first, it was a casual coo over the perfect button nose or a smile at the tiny fingers clutching Renée's hair. But soon, the attention became a gnawing ache. Esme found herself seeking out Renée and Isabella, her days planned around stolen moments watching the baby.

Esme's fascination morphed. She devoured every detail – the way Isabella's eyes widened in wonder, the curve of her lips when she sucked her thumb. Esme started collecting baby clothes, a soft rattle here, a fluffy stuffed animal there. Sleep became fragmented, filled with dreams of rocking a giggling Isabella, whispering stories into her downy hair.

Grace Masen became concerned about Esme, and how she would not stop gushing about Isabella when they spoke on the phone. The questions became so irksome Esme stopped calling. How can you be so sure the other mother is bad? It isn't any of your business. I loved this Foundation idea, dear, but aren't you opening yourself up to a lawsuit?

Esme's world narrowed, consumed by the impossible dream of being a part of Isabella's life, a yearning that threatened to unravel everything she had.

The line between admiration and entitlement blurred. It helped that Esme was nearly forty and Renée was barely of age. It helped that Esme was experienced where Renée was overwhelmed. Playdates turned into opportunities for Esme to hold Isabella, the sweet baby scent intoxicating. Renée grew suspicious and Esme grew jealous.

Renée Higginbotham was nowhere to be seen on Isabella's fourteen-month check-in. Typically, attendance at these check-ins was required for families to receive financial stipends to fund the care babies needed. Even though the Higginbotham case was unusual, nobody had any doubt that the Foundation activities were beneficial for mother- and-baby. Despite Isabella's diagnosis, the baby was thriving.

Isabella was alone with her father, strapped to her stroller and wearing a pink jumpsuit. "Hi, Isabella," Esme said softly, touching a finger to her button nose reverently. "Good morning, my little love." Isabella gurgled and giggled, and Esme smiled. It made her day, her week, to see the baby. Her baby. The most beautiful baby Esme had ever come across. Had Alice lived, Esme figured, she would have had similar afflictions.

What Esme felt for Isabella knew no explanation. A therapist that Esme saw at her mother's behest used the term "unhealthy fixation" relentlessly, to the point that Esme stopped going.

Esme remembered Charlie Swan from when he led the Dodgers to a World Series' win. He was handsome, Esme supposed. Flecks of gray dusted his once-chocolate brown hair, receding slightly at the temples. Laughter lines, charming in their youth, now bracketed his warm brown eyes, hinting at the passage of time. A hint of softness had crept into his jawline, a subtle reminder of nights spent less in pursuit of adventure and more in comfortable routine.

Without waiting for permission, she lifted Isabella from the stroller and cuddled her close. I missed you. Mommy missed you.

"Where is Mrs. Swan?" Esme asked pleasantly, rising to her feet. Esme wore a sharp-shouldered, emerald green blazer cinched her waist over a black, midi-length pencil skirt. The look was finished with bold, gold-framed pearl earrings. Isabella clawed at one, making Esme laugh.

"There's no Mrs. Swan," Charles Swan huffed. "We aren't married, thank God."

"Oh," Esme said delicately. It was brand new information, and Esme was storing that in her brain like ammunition. "In any case, Mr. Swan. I don't know if Renée has mentioned this, but I have accompanied our social workers assigned to Isabella's case."

"Renée hasn't said anything for weeks," Charles Swan spat disgustedly.

"Oh?" Esme asked, genuinely concerned. "Is she unwell?"

"You'll find out in a minute," Charles Swan grumbled. "I'm gonna need all the help I can get. Thank God for you, lady."

Esme led them into a private space. Inside, once seated, Charles Swan cracked faster than an eggshell. Esme held Isabella while the revelations poured out of her father. Isabella clawed at Esme's caramel-colored hair and even tried to latch at Esme's breast. The gesture made Esme ache.

"Mr. Swan, it's good to see you," Maggie Evans, assigned to the case, said brightly. Esme would fire her in two months.

"She's catatonic," Charles Swan spat.

"So, you're saying Renée hasn't spoken or moved in… how long?" The social worker, Ms. Evans, phrased the question delicately, her voice barely a whisper.

Charles let out a humorless bark of a laugh. "Three weeks. Like a statue. Just sits there, staring into space. Can't even get her to eat."

Ms. Evans pursed her lips, noting the dark circles beneath Charles' eyes and the tremor in his voice. "This must be incredibly difficult for you, Mr. Swan."

"Difficult?" Charles exploded, finally rising to his feet. The sudden movement startled Ms. Evans, her clipboard clattering to the floor. "Difficult? Try living with a ghost in your own home! A ghost who happens to have a six-month-old baby screaming its head off in the next room!"

Maggie Evans' voice was firm but gentle. "Tell me about Renée's health history. Any pre-existing conditions?"

Charles hesitated. Shame burned in his gut. "She has a mental illness." The word came out with disgust. "She's seeing a nutcracker doctor, but the doctor refuses to tell me what the illness is without her consent."

Esme knew that the term nutcracker was entirely inappropriate and that there was nothing to be disgusted about. Truly, she knew – but she didn't care.

Maggie Evans' eyes widened a fraction, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. Esme tightened her hold on the baby. "Mental illness, you say? And when was she last diagnosed?"

Charles stared at his hands, tracing the worn lines on his palm. "Just before she got pregnant. "I didn't know until she was psychotic until she was pregnant," he seethed furiously.

Ms. Evans leaned forward, her expression a careful mix of empathy and concern. "Mr. Swan, there's no need to be angry. We're here to help. But I need full disclosure to assess the situation properly. Is Renée receiving treatment for her illness?"

"She's been hospitalized," Charles Swan admitted with great shame.

"She needs to be hospitalized long-term," Esme said immediately, her voice sure with certainty. "She needs to be hospitalized long-term. Committed. She can't be a good mother."

Maggie Evans looked at her boss incredulously. "We aren't qualified to make that kind of call," Maggie said immediately, unafraid to contradict her boss, and Esme felt enraged.

Maggie looked reassuringly at Charles Swan. "In fact, many women with mental health struggles can make wonderful mothers and lead fulfilling lives."

"No," Esme lied through her teeth, correcting Maggie – who was much better qualified to make the call. "We can't be sure that she does not pose an immediate threat to the baby."

Maggie Evans was shaking her head. "Esme, with all due respect – "

"That's Miss Masen to you," Esme snarled darkly.

In retrospect, it was frightening how quickly Charles Swan relinquished control of Isabella to Esme Brandon. You should go rest, Mr. Swan, Esme suggested, even flirtatiously. I can take care of her for an afternoon. You must have had a very frightful couple of weeks. Esme had ensured everything was in order: Isabella had been forcefully weaned. There was pureed food in the diaper bag.

Feeling euphoric, Esme pushed the stroller down the gravel path. Isabella, bundled in a cherry red coat that accentuated her honey- brown eyes doe eyes, bounced slightly with each bump. At fourteen months, she was gorgeous. Yet, beneath the surface perfection, a subtle awkwardness lurked. Isabella's grip, when Esme reached down to adjust a stray curl, was surprisingly weak, and her legs, encased in tiny woolen pants, seemed to struggle to find purchase in the stroller.

Reaching the pond, a haven of mottled green and grey ducks, Esme stopped the stroller. Isabella's head lolled back, her gaze fixed on the sky, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. Esme's heart lurched. Was she cold? Uncomfortable?

"Look, darling," Esme said, her voice bright. "Ducks!"

Isabella's eyes blinked open and a flicker of recognition sparked in those warm depths. A gummy grin stretched across Isabella's face, the most beautiful sight Esme had ever seen.

"Ducky," she slurred, the word thick on her tongue.

"Ducky, my love. Ducky."

Esme dug a bag of stale bread crumbs out of her purse, a peace offering to the waterfowl. As the ducks waddled closer, Isabella's entire body tensed with excitement. Her little hand, the one with slightly less flex than the other, reached out with a jerky movement.

"Ducky," she repeated, frustration lacing her voice.

Esme's heart ached even as it exploded with joy. She knelt beside the stroller, gently placing a single crumb on Isabella's open palm. The baby fumbled for a moment, then managed to close her fingers around the tiny morsel. With a triumphant squeal, she flung her arm forward, scattering the bread crumb onto the water. A single duck bobbed its head, accepting the offering.

Two elderly women approached. Isabella, ever the charmer, cooed at the sight of them, her attempts at waving a little jerky due to her spasticity. Esme's heart ached, a pang hidden beneath a surge of possessiveness.

"Oh my goodness, what a beautiful baby!" one gushed, bending down to coo at Isabella. Esme preened, a practiced smile gracing her lips.

"Isn't she just?" Esme replied, her voice dripping with sweetness. "She's keeping me on my toes, that's for sure!"

The woman chuckled. "They grow up so fast, don't they? How old is she?"

"Fourteen months," Esme lied smoothly. The truth, that Isabella's development was slower due to her condition, was a secret she fiercely guarded.

The other woman chimed in, her gaze lingering on Isabella's unsteady leg movements. "She seems a little wobbly on her feet. Is she just learning to walk?"

Esme felt a prickle of unease. "Not exactly," she said.

The conversation continued, peppered with compliments about Isabella's looks and Esme's supposed "motherly nature." Each admiring glance, each coo, inflated Esme's ego like a balloon.

That day, she was out with her daughter.

The floodgates were open. Charles Swan was too overwhelmed with Renée hospitalized, and Esme was free. Esme was free to spend entire days with Isabella, to live out her every fantasy. Every morning, she knocked at Charles Swan's house at 8 AM. Isabella was asleep when he returned. Charles Swan was happy to take advantage of that generosity.

In public and in private, Esme started ro refer to herself as Mommy.

With every passing day, as Esme's contentment grew, so did her fear. When Charles Swan finally announced that Renée was being discharged from the hospital, Esme's lungs constricted with terror. Esme felt a surge of anger, laced with a prickle of fear. The image of Renée, with her worried frown and tired eyes, caring for Isabella, was unbearable. "No," she whispered, the word laced with desperation. "She needs me."

Charles Swan didn't hear her.

"For your daughter's sake, that girl needs to be kept away from Isabella," Esme said, raising her voice an octave above a whisper, keeping her voice cold and crisp. "You need to keep that girl away from Isabella. She is a drug user and she's insane. Certifiably so. She's dangerous."

Esme testified in court to that effect, in a failed attempt to put Renée Higginbotham in a conservatorship. A month after that Esme's testimony helped award Charles Swan full legal and physical custody.

Charlie Swan was a useful idiot, but he made himself helpful by proposing marriage a couple of months after that.

1992

It was Edward and Grace Masen's 45th anniversary, and they had chosen to have a quiet dinner at home.

"Oh, Mimi. Oh."

"Isn't she just a beauty?" Esme preened, strategically positioning the stroller for maximum visibility. On it, 22-month-old Isabella looked like an angel. She wore a red dress Esme had specifically selected for the occasion. Her huge doe eyes were luminous, framed by thick dark eyelashes. Esme had carefully coiffed her hair, playing a ribbon on her head.

It was everything she had fought to achieve. Finally, she was coming home with a gorgeous baby – whose beauty could rival even Edward's – and a husband.

"Oh, Mimi," Elizabeth said. Elizabeth's eyes were glistening with tears of pity. Dazed, Esme felt like she had fallen ten thousand feet and crashed with a smack against the pavement.

On her hand, she wore a gigantic engagement ring. She lifted it pointedly as she lifted Isabella from the stroller.

"Mimi, she's beautiful. I can understand why…"

"Why what?" Esme snarled dangerously, while Isabella studied Elizabeth curiously.

"Why you're so in love with her," Elizabeth said softly.

"I don't like it one bit." It was Grace Masen's opening statement, and she kept a cold distance from Esme and her daughter.

"What don't you like, mother?" Esme said icily, with forced coyness. "My engagement ring?"

"The way you've destroyed that family, Esme. It's despicable," Catherine snapped. "It was out of line for you to testify against that girl in court. One day, that'll come back to haunt you. They can sue you for millions for what you did. What you did is criminal. You took advantage of a position of trust to swoop in and – "

"I gave my professional opinion."

"You're not a professional," Catherine barked, sounding eerily like her husband.

Knowing the conversation would get dicey, Esme lowered her daughter back into the stroller.

Esme defended herself with ice in her veins. "What I did was protect a child," she said crisply. "Isabella needs me."

"What you did to Isabella's mother isn't right," Elizabeth agreed fiercely, pleadingly, concurring with her mother.

"That woman was unfit to parent."

Elizabeth shook her head. "There's a teacher at school. Jenny," she said, growing angry. "She's a wonderful mother. Mental illness is just like any other illness. That's what Carlisle said. There's no reason why she couldn't take perfectly good care of Isabella."

"You," Esme spat. "You had a friend that died of that homosexual virus, and you've always hung out with a crew of reprobates and imbeciles. I'm not taking advice on moral standing or character from you. You've always been a wishy-washy idiot."

Tears were streaming down Elizabeth's face, but her face finally hardened.

"You're a monster, Esme," Elizabeth said, and it would be the last time they spoke until their mother went into palliative care.