June 1995

Five / Eight

Three women sat on a park bench painted dark green. To five-year-old Isabella, they looked like entirely different species. To adults, the women were evidently related, and the evidence was in the symmetry of their chins and the coppery echoes of their coloring. Isabella's mother sat on one edge: in her early forties, dressed impeccably in a stiff-shouldered pale pink pantsuit with a pearl necklace, hair in a neat, caramel-colored bob. It was '95: Esme was asked frequently if she was her child's grandmother.

On the other edge, a woman that had introduced herself as Lizzie, and had a dazzling, glowing smile. Of the three, only Lizzie wore faded, bootcut jeans and a checkered sweater that made her look younger than her thirty-nine years. Lizzie had asked Isabella if she wanted to play. Isabella had been lifted onto Lizzie's lap, for ten exhilarating minutes on the swings for fifteen minutes. Esme had watched like a fitful hawk.

Grace Masen sat between her daughters, emaciated by uterine cancer that was spreading to her breasts like an invading army. Her adult daughters avoided speaking to one another. If they were forced to acknowledge each other, they spoke with the tone one reserves for annoying sales clerks.

Isabella was always on the edge, quietly watching and itching to play. In the kindergarten jungle gym, she was forced to sit still, her hands resting on her lap as she watched the other kids run and climb. The swings moved back and forth, the slide filled with giggles, but none of it felt like it was for her. She wanted to play, too, but the wood chips on the ground made her wheels stick, and sometimes kids didn't know how to include her. It wasn't that they were mean—just busy, moving too fast to notice she was waiting.

Sometimes, Bella tried to call out, to ask if she could join. But words were slow – at least the understandable ones. She used the sounds she practiced with her mommy. By the time she got them out, the game had already changed. Defeatedly, Isabella watched – wishing, waiting, hoping someone would see her.

Edward held a football in his hands, and he would throw it up into the air. When it crashed back towards the grass, Edward would catch it over and over. His shoelaces were untied, flopping around every time he jumped. She noticed how he kept stealing glances at her, then quickly looking away.

The football soared too high, bouncing away toward the slide. Instead of chasing it, Edward stood frozen, staring at Isabella's wheelchair again. His face scrunched up like he'd tasted something sour. Lizzie bent down and whispered something in his ear, giving him a gentle nudge forward. Edward trudged toward Isabella, kicking up clouds of mulch with each reluctant step.

"Do you..." He stopped, studying his untied shoelaces. "Do you wanna play catch?"

Isabella wanted to answer immediately, but the words caught in her throat, like they always did. She nodded rapidly instead, making her butterfly clips dance against her dark hair.

Edward shuffled closer. "Can you... um... catch?"

Isabella's head bobbed in a complicated sequence of nods and shakes. Her hands could catch just fine, but sometimes they surprised her and didn't do what she wanted. She took a deep breath, just like Ms. Thompson had taught her in speech therapy.

"I can... tuh-eye," she finally said, the words coming out with effort but clear enough to understand. She held up her hands to demonstrate her readiness.

On the edge of her playground, Isabella's mother stood anxiously.

The doubt on Edward's face began to fade. He backed up a few steps, cradling the football like it was made of glass. "I'll throw it really soft, okay?"

Eight-year-old Edward stood hesitantly less than two feet away from Isabella, and he tossed it carefully, almost directly, into her waiting hands.

Isabella nodded again, focusing intently on the football. Her hands were cooperating today – steady and responsive. The first throw came in gentle and slow, landing perfectly in her waiting palms. A smile burst across her face as her fingers closed around the ball.

"You caught it!" Edward's voice carried genuine surprise and delight. "That was a good catch!"

Isabella's hands trembled slightly with excitement as she held the football. She wanted to throw it back, but she knew her arms might not listen exactly the way she wanted them to.

"Uh-gain?" she asked, the word coming out clearer than before. Weakly, she held out the football with her hands.

Edward nodded hesitantly, and repeated the same procedure – gently tossing the ball all but two feet away from her, aiming directly at her lap.

"Nice throw!" he called out, his smile now matching hers.

Lizzie and Isabella's mother watched from the bench, sharing knowing looks as the game continued. Each throw built confidence on both sides – Edward learning to gauge the perfect speed and distance, Isabella discovering she could participate more than she'd thought possible.

After a particularly good catch, Edward wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Hey, you wanna see something cool?" Without waiting for an answer, he started spinning the football on his finger – or trying to. It kept falling off after a second or two.

Isabella giggled, and Edward beamed.

Eight-year-old Edward was the first kind to approach her on a playground. Edward would not remember, but Isabella could never forget.

January 2015

Twenty-five / Twenty-seven

In the end, before she could save herself, Isabella was saved by the combination that saved most heartbroken women: her best friend, her pet, and a stroke of grace.

Rosalie woke up from underneath a thick tartan blanket, surrounded by disposable and greasy containers of Chinese food. Cold, gray air zinged her nostrils. Realization fell like a lead weight on her stomach. Edward was gone, not willingly, but because she requested it. Rose was snoring loudly next to Bella, curled into a little ball. In their bed. The bed she had shared with Edward.

All night long, for the second time in as many days, she prayed, wishing she could disappear. Vanish into thin air. Disappearing would be easier than existing.

Isabella had barely slept, because her mind was bursting and at war with itself.

Bella had shattered into pieces, and all her pieces were at war.

One Isabella was angry, vengeful, bloodied, and raw. That piece clung to the facts: that Edward and Jane had become pregnant, that Jane had terminated that pregnancy, and that Edward would never have told her.

Another Isabella loved him still, deeply, and probably irrevocably. That part knew that he was fragile in his way and felt so protective it was painful. A part of her felt relieved when he came home, and he was whole when he fell asleep next to her at night and slept peacefully.

That part of her was worried sick.

The teenage Isabella, living inside her in the way adolescence lives inside every person, had grown vocal. The old scars had been torn open, more painfully. For years, Edward had pretended not to know her. It had hurt to watch Edward, with his hands in another girl's pocket. With Tanya, with Kate, with Lauren, with French substitute teachers, with nameless girls that blurred in her memory. Heather Burns and Stephanie Reynolds, Dana Noble.

True, he always found time for her, and his expression would be so soft, and tender, and he would call her angel.

Like she wasn't woman enough, sexy enough, to be his equal.

All of Isabella was certain Edward loved her, and that had never cut so deeply.

It was 3:00 AM, and she woke with a start again, to Rose's sonorous snorting and snoring.

Isabella didn't know how to be a person without Edward – and not only because they were deeply entangled. Not because they were raised by two sisters before they had been raised together. Not because Edward had been her first friend, her best friend. Not because they had come from the same family.

But because they'd promised each other to build a family together. Just you, and me, and our baby.

Life without Edward loomed threateningly, different in ways big and small. Edward had taken care of her with disciplined devotion. Edward cleaned the cat's litter box; Edward took out the trash. Edward did the dishes if her tremors were too bad; Edward had done the vacuuming until Isabella bought a Roomba.

Less than three days had gone by, and she missed the feel of his hands, steady and warm. Those twenty minutes that they spent stretching together almost every night, because Edward never skipped them. For nearly four years, it had been their nightly ritual. Edward's hands had been so sure, so gentle – knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly when to hold and when to release. He'd approach her exercises with that intense focus she loved, all doctor-in-training precision, mixed with that fear of hurting her that never really left him. "Breathe through it, baby," he'd murmur, working through each muscle group methodically. "Almost there."

Rosalie finally woke up at 9:00, and Bella peered at her with soulful dark eyes. "Do you think it's OK if we stay here? It's technically his apartment, and I –"

"You need to call him," Rose said sharply, despite the early hour. Bella eyed her warily. "Sort out all the shit that's tangled together."

That idea made Bella's head spin, because they were tangled together in every way that mattered. "I don't even know if – I don't know that I don't want to marry him," she admitted.

"Baby, this is about sorting out where you'll live," Rose grumbled, rising to stretch.

"He owns this apartment," Bella muttered, still trembling. "Well, if not him then my Uncle Carlisle. I'm sure he'll – I'm sure Edward'll want it back."

"I'm fucking certain he won't kick you out."

Bella, who was stressed at the idea of freeloading off Edward, knew Rosalie was right.

"Talk to him," Rosalie insisted.

"I don't know how," Isabella croaked at Rose. She really did not. She barely understood the logistics of the deed to her childhood home

"Christ, Swan. You have a degree in Economics. You remember why your Dad really liked that for you?"

She wiped at her eyes with her sleeves. "Because you I aced finance," Bella said, with a small, self-satisfied shrug.

"Yeah, you did. Repeat after me: I'm a bad bitch and I aced finance."

Bella snorted and smiled. "I'm a bad bitch and I aced finance," she repeated, giggling.

"Call him," Rose insisted. "You both deserve it. And you can handle a couple of months learning to stand on your own two feet."

Bella let out a watery laugh. "Was that supposed to be a pun?"

"Made you fucking smile," Rose mumbled. Rose squeezed her shoulders. "Look, I'm not saying it's going to be easy. But you've got me. You've got your fucked up parents, in their own fucked up ways. You have friends here. You've even got Emmett. You're not alone. And you're not helpless."

"I'm not helpless," Bella echoed hesitantly.

"You're not helpless," Rose echoed.

Bella's thumb hovered over Edward's contact info. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped the phone. "What if he hates me?"

"He doesn't hate you. He could never hate you." Rose's voice was soft but firm. "And you need to know where you stand with the apartment."

Taking a deep breath, Bella pressed the call button before she could lose her nerve. Her heart hammered against her ribs as it rang.

He picked up on the second ring. "Bella?" His voice was rough, like he hadn't been sleeping well. It make her stomach clench with worry.

"Hi," she managed weakly. A tremor ran through her right leg. "Are you OK? I... I hope it's okay that I'm calling."

Edward was quiet for an infernally long moment, and she winced, half-expecting him to bark at her, to push her away. Like he had when they were teenagers – though she had never been on the receiving end.

"You can always call me," he said stiffly. And then, for an excruciatingly brief moment, his voice took on that tender tone he'd always used just for her. "I've been worried about you."

"I'm okay," she said automatically. "Well, I'm... managing." She snorted.

"I don't want to bother you. I wanted to talk about some practical things. I'm imposing right now, in the apartment, and Pancake, and... I called Angela Weber, and she'll let me stay with her –"

"Stay in the apartment," Edward spluttered, in a burst. Soft, desperate and gentle. Like a plea. Bella wished she could see his eyes, so desperately her whole heart constricted with longing.

Then he stiffened and took a business-like tone. It was so strange, to be the recipient of that kind of cool, punctilious tone. "I know it's mine," he said, snappishly. "But I'm in Springfield most of the time anyway for the residency. And Pancake... he should be with you. He likes you better anyway."

Even now, even when he was in the throes of pain, Edward was thinking of her.

"Edward, thank you. I know I just shouldn't - can't take over your apartment –"

"You can and you will," he interjected. "I'm not going to leave you without a place to live, Bella. I would never do that to you. The apartment is paid for. Just... stay. Please."

She felt tears prick in her eyes at his kindness, even now. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. We can figure out a more permanent arrangement later if... if that's what you want." There was a catch in his voice on the last words.

"The wedding deposits –" she started.

"Don't worry about those," he said quietly. "Really, Isabella. I mean it. That's the least of what matters right now."

"Edward, I –"

"I have to go."

January 2015

Twenty-five / Twenty-seven

Isabella sat in Dr. Rachel Klein's waiting room, her fingers drumming anxiously against the armrests of her wheelchair. The office was warm and inviting, with soft lighting and comfortable furniture, but she felt out of place. She hadn't wanted to come, but Carlisle had been gently insistent.

"Just try one session," he'd said, his blue eyes filled with concern. "For me, sweetheart."

Bella couldn't say no to her Uncle Carlisle, but not because of the same bone-deep instinct for acquiescence that seemed to impel her to say yes to her mother.

Dr. Klein emerged from her office. She was younger than Bella expected, maybe in her early forties, with kind eyes and a steady presence. "Isabella? Come on in."

The first session was brutal. Dr. Klein asked about her eating habits, her anxiety, her relationship with her mother. Bella found herself crying within minutes, the words pouring out of her like a dam breaking.

"I just... I don't know who I am anymore," she admitted, her voice cracking. "For so long, I was Edward's Bella, or Esme's Bella, or the girl who needed help. And now..."

"Now you get to figure out who you want to be," Dr. Klein said gently.

Bella laughed wetly. "I don't even know where to start."

"Let's start with something concrete. When was the last time you ate a full meal?"

The question made Bella's stomach clench. "I... I can't remember," she whispered. "Food just sits there like lead. And sometimes it feels good, you know? The hunger. Like I'm in control of something."

Dr. Klein nodded without judgment. "That's very common. But it's also dangerous. Your uncle mentioned you've lost quite a bit of weight?"

"Twenty pounds since summer," Bella admitted. Her voice was barely audible. "Maybe more now."

"I'd like you to see Dr. Noles," Dr. Klein said. "She's an excellent nutritionist who specializes in eating disorders. Would you be willing to do that?"

Bella's first instinct was to refuse – to insist she didn't have an eating disorder. But she thought of Carlisle's worried face, of how her clothes hung loose now, of how even climbing into bed left her exhausted.

"Okay," she mumbled, tugging at her sleeve.

Dr. Noles' office was across town. Unlike Dr. Klein's cozy space, it was clinical and bright, with charts about portion sizes and metabolic rates on the walls. But Dr. Noles herself had a warmth that put Bella at ease.

"Let's talk about what a healthy relationship with food looks like," Dr. Noles said after their initial consultation. "Not about weight or calories, but about nourishing your body so it can heal."

Bella found herself nodding. "I used to love food," she said suddenly, surprising herself. "Before... before everything. My, eh…" Ex felt painfully unimaginable on her tongue, and she avoided the word altogether. Boyfriend felt too thin a term to capture such a thick relationship. "Edward and I would cook together. He made these ridiculous grilled cheese sandwiches with fancy cheese..."

Her voice caught on his name, but she forced herself to continue. "And my mom... used to bake when I was little. We'd make banana bread on Sundays."

"Those sound like good memories," Dr. Noles said carefully. "What changed?"

"Everything got so... overwhelming. The wedding plans, and the social obligations, and my mother's cancer, and... food became this thing I could control when everything else was spinning out."

"That's very insightful," Dr. Noles said. She pulled out a notebook. "Let's make a plan. Small steps. Would you be willing to try eating three meals tomorrow? They don't have to be big. Just something at regular intervals."

Bella felt tears prick at her eyes. "I can try."

She started with toast in the mornings. Then yogurt with berries for lunch. Minuscule portions of pasta for dinner, with chicken, because the thought of returning to bread again made her anxious. Food began to taste like food again, not like cardboard or guilt.

Between sessions with Dr. Klein and Dr. Noles, January crawled by. Some days were harder than others. Most nights, she still cried herself to sleep, reaching for Edward's warmth and finding only space. In the middle of the night, her worry would claw at her, squeezing her lungs, making her so anxious she needed immediate relief, consequences be damned. Her Edward was fragile, in ways in which she was not.

So sometimes she called, and it was like a compulsion that took over her at random intervals. At midnight. At midday, at 3:15 PM.

"I – I'm sorry," she would croak, and her guilt would saturate her voice. "I – I wanted to hear – "

"The sound of your voice," Edward would finish for her, quiet and desperate and raw. "I fucking get it."

They both stayed silent for a long moment, just breathing together through the phone.

"How are you?" he asked finally, keeping his voice soft, as if speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile connection this was.

"I'm...okay," she said hesitantly. "And you?" The question was gentle, concerned. "Are you eating enough?"

Sometimes, he'd be rude – sharp, unforgiving edges to push her away.

A weak bark of a laugh, rusty and disdainful. "Since when do you give a fuck?"

Bella would huff indignantly, feeling like she had been slapped. "Since I was twelve years old. I'll always give a fuck. I'll give millions of fucks."

"Sorry, love. I know," Edward would say, chastised, and then, in a breath that seemed uncontrollable. "Please come back."

"Edward. I –"

"Please."

"I should go," she whispered finally, her voice cracking. "It's late, and you probably have surgery tomorrow. We do need to talk, but I'm not ready. I'm still really hurt."

February 2015

Twenty-five / Twenty-seven

Dr. Klein's office was painted a soft sage green, with two armchairs angled towards each other near a window that overlooked bare winter trees. Bella had positioned her wheelchair in the space where one of the armchairs should have been, her trembling hands folded tightly in her lap.

"So, Isabella," Dr. Klein began, her voice gentle but direct. "How has your eating been this week?"

Bella's first instinct was to deflect, to lie. Instead, she took a deep breath.

"I try," Bella said truthfully, her voice catching. "I sit down with food, and I just... I can't. It feels like swallowing stones." Her hands were trembling so badly now that she had to grip the armrests of her wheelchair. "Everything feels like that lately. Heavy. Impossible."

Dr. Klein's expression remained neutral, but her pen moved across her notepad. "Can you tell me more about that? When did this start?"

"December." The word came out like a whimper. "After... after I ended my engagement."

"That must have been a difficult decision."

Bella's laugh was hollow. "The most difficult. He was... he is..." She trailed off, pressing her fingertips against her eyes. "We grew up together. He was my best friend before he was anything else. And now I don't even know who I am without him."

"What do you mean by that?"

"We've always been together," Bella said, and the words started pouring out of her in a rush.

"Edward was my first playmate when I was a kid," she said, and her voice grew soft and wistful. "Then, when we were teens, he wasn't technically my first friend, but almost, and then… Then I was Edward's girlfriend, Edward's fiancée. His family became my family. His world became my world. Or I tried to make it my world, anyway." Her voice cracked. "I tried so hard."

"And now?"

"Now I feel like I'm floating in space. No gravity, no anchor. Just... nothing." Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks now. "My mother has cancer, and I can't even be there for her properly because being around her hurts too much. She's so disappointed in me. Everyone's disappointed in me."

"Are you disappointed in yourself?"

The question befuddled her. "I... I don't know. Maybe? I couldn't be what they needed me to be. What Edward needed me to be."

"And what was that?"

"Someone who could handle that world. The galas, the networking, the social obligations. Someone who could smile and make small talk with people who looked at me like I was..." She gestured at her wheelchair, at her trembling hands.

"It sounds like you were trying very hard to fit yourself into a mold that wasn't shaped like you."

"But I loved him," Bella whispered, and the words felt like they were being torn from her chest. "I still love him. Shouldn't that have been enough?"

"Love isn't always enough," Dr. Klein said gently. "Sometimes loving someone means recognizing that you can't be who they need without losing who you are. So who are you?"

Bella blinked wetly, then snorted. "I don't even know anymore. I used to read constantly. I used to write. I wanted to be a teacher, or at least in the education space. And all of that makes me feel so stupid lately."

"You're talking about those interests in the past tense," Dr. Klein observed. "But they're still there, aren't they? Still part of you?"

Bella wiped at her eyes with trembling fingers. "I guess."

"Maybe that's where we start then. Not with who you were to other people, but with who you are when no one is watching. What makes you feel most like yourself?"

"I..." Bella paused, considering. "It makes me feel really stupid, what I liked. Edward was always studying, or playing sports, or … People were always calling, always. To hang out with him. And I was always more of a homebody. Honestly, it made me so happy to curl up with a book at home. I miss reading. I always have a book with me these days, but I always forget the plot."

"That sounds like a good place to start," Dr. Klein said. She glanced at her notepad. "Pick a book and read it."

"I'd like to see you next week," Dr. Klein continued. "And I'm going to recommend you keep seeing Noles. This isn't just about food – it's about control, about punishment perhaps. But we need to address the physical symptoms while we work through the emotional ones."

Isabella shifted on the couch. Dr. Klein watched her patiently, waiting for her to gather her thoughts.

"I don't really know where to start," Isabella admitted finally, her voice soft. "My relationship with my mother is... complicated. She's really my stepmother."

Dr. Klein nodded encouragingly. "Why don't you start at the beginning? How did you come to be with your mother? Your stepmother?"

Isabella took a deep breath. "That's the thing. I'm not entirely sure. For as long as I can remember, she's the one who raised me, took care of me. And she was so good at it. She was the best Mom I could've ever had. "

"My earliest memories of Esme are all so positive," Isabella continued, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sifted through her childhood recollections. "She was always so attentive, so loving. I remember her reading to me every night, brushing my hair, taking me to all my doctor's appointments. She made me feel... cherished."

Dr. Klein nodded. "It sounds like she was very devoted to you."

"She was. Is." Isabella corrected herself automatically. "But now I'm wondering... was it too much? Like she was trying too hard to make me depend on her completely."

She paused, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "There's this one memory that keeps coming back to me. I must have been about five or six. We were at a park and I saw this woman watching me. She looked... sad. Like she wanted to come over but wasn't sure if she should."

Isabella's hand clenched unconsciously in the fabric of her skirt. "I think... I think it was Renée. I didn't know who she was then, but the way my mother reacted when she saw her... She got so angry. She snatched me up and yelled at the woman to stay away, that she had no right to be there. Then she took me home immediately and I remember her holding me so tightly, telling me over and over that she was my only real mother and no one could ever take me from her."

Dr. Klein made another note, her expression carefully neutral. "How did that make you feel at the time?"

"Confused. Scared." Isabella's voice was distant, lost in the memory. "But also... safe. Because my mother was there and I trusted her completely. I didn't question it when she said the woman was dangerous, that she would hurt me. I believed everything Esme told me."

A single tear slipped down Isabella's cheek. "But now... now I don't know. Because if that woman was Renée... if she was my birth mother... then maybe she wasn't dangerous. Maybe she just wanted to see me. And my mother kept her away. All these years, she's let me believe Renée abandoned me, that she never loved me, but what if that was never true?"

Her voice broke on the last word and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, eyes squeezing shut against the sudden onslaught of emotion.

"My mother always blamed Renée for the palsy. My mother always said it was because my birth mother did drugs while pregnant with me. That's why I have cerebral palsy." Isabella's hand drifted unconsciously to her leg, tracing the familiar lines of her brace. "And I always thought that's why my birthmother ran off. But recently, I found out that might not be the whole truth."

Dr. Klein made a quick note. "What did you find out?"

"Apparently, my birth mother - she reached out to me. Letters, emails. We even visited. Renée said that she never willingly gave me up." Isabella's voice caught. "I don't know what to believe anymore."

"That must be very confusing," Dr. Klein said gently. "To have your understanding of your history suddenly called into question."

Isabella nodded, blinking back tears. "And now with Esme's cancer... I feel like I can't even process it all. She's always been this force in my life, you know? This constant. And now she's sick and I'm realizing I might not know her at all and it's just... it's a lot."

She broke off, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. Dr. Klein passed her a tissue box.

"Isabella, it's understandable to feel overwhelmed right now. You're grappling with not only your mother's illness, but these new revelations about your past. It's a lot for anyone to handle."

Isabella took a shuddering breath. "I just don't know what to do. How to feel. I love Esme, but I'm so angry too. And scared. Scared of losing her before I can make sense of any of it."

Dr. Klein leaned forward slightly. "I want you to know that all of those feelings are valid, Isabella. The love, the anger, the fear. You're allowed to feel all of it. And together, in these sessions, we can start to unpack it. To separate truth from fiction and help you come to a place of understanding - and peace."

Dr. Klein leaned forward slightly in her chair, her kind eyes focused intently on Isabella. "I'd like us to talk a bit about your cerebral palsy today, if you're comfortable with that."

Isabella shifted in her wheelchair, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. "What about it?" Her voice was cautious, guarded.

"Well, it's a significant part of your life experience. I think it would be valuable for us to explore how it's impacted you - not just physically, but emotionally and psychologically as well."

Isabella was quiet for a long moment. She'd grown so used to downplaying her disability, to insisting she was fine, that the idea of actually discussing it in depth felt like being cast into an angry ocean.

"I don't really know where to start," she admitted finally.

Dr. Klein smiled encouragingly. "That's okay. Let's start with the basics. When were you diagnosed?"

"At birth, pretty much. I was born really premature, at 26 weeks. The doctors knew right away that there was brain damage."

"And how did that affect your early development? Your milestones?"

Isabella laughed darkly, feeling an onset of bitterness. "I didn't have milestones, not really. I never crawled. I didn't walk until I was four, and that was with a walker and braces. Everything was just... delayed. Difficult."

Dr. Klein nodded, jotting down a quick note. "That must have been hard, as a child. Seeing other kids hit those milestones when you couldn't."

"I guess. Honestly, I didn't really notice for a long time. My mom - Esme, that is - she was so good at making everything seem normal. Telling me how special I was. It wasn't until school that I really understood how different I was."

"Different how?"

Isabella looked down at her hands. "Just... everything. I couldn't run around at recess. I needed help in the bathroom. I had an aide with me in class. And the other kids, they noticed. They asked questions. Sometimes not very nicely."

"That's a lot for a child to handle," Dr. Klein said gently. "The physical challenges, but also the social isolation, the feeling of being othered."

"Yeah, there was always... a separation. This feeling that I wasn't quite part of their world. And I hated standing out, being different. I just wanted to be normal."

"That's a very common feeling for children with disabilities. This desire to blend in, to not be defined by their diagnosis. Did you feel defined by your cerebral palsy?"

Isabella hesitated, then nodded. "In a lot of ways, yeah. It impacted everything - how people saw me, what I was able to do, the expectations people had for me. And I fought against that, I tried so hard to be more than my disability. But it was always there, you know? This inescapable part of me."

"And how do you think that's shaped you? Growing up with that experience?"

"Honestly? I think it's made me really stubborn," Isabella said with a small laugh. "Really determined to prove myself, to show that I'm capable. But also really afraid of asking for help, of admitting when I do need assistance. Because that feels like weakness. Like proving everyone right."

Dr. Klein made another note, her expression thoughtful. "That's a heavy burden, Isabella. This pressure to constantly overcompensate, to push yourself past your limits. Have you ever given yourself permission to just... be? To accept your cerebral palsy as part of you, without feeling like you have to fight it or overcome it?"

Isabella blinked rapidly, surprised to feel tears pricking at her eyes. "I don't... I don't know if I know how to do that," she admitted in a whisper.

"That's okay," Dr. Klein said softly. "It's a process, learning to accept ourselves fully. And it's especially hard when the world isn't always accepting of differences."

She paused, giving Isabella a moment to collect herself. Then she asked, "Has your relationship with your cerebral palsy changed over time? From childhood to now?"

Isabella considered the question, absently rubbing at a tight muscle in her leg as she thought. "In some ways, yes. As I've gotten older, I've gotten better at adapting, at finding ways to manage my symptoms and limitations. I'm more confident now in advocating for my needs. But in other ways..." She shrugged.

"It's like I'm constantly at war with my own body. And that doesn't really go away, no matter how much progress I make."

"I can only imagine," Dr. Klein said sympathetically. "And how has that impacted your relationships? With family, with friends... with partners?"

Isabella stiffened slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Well, chronic illness and disability can add a unique strain to relationships sometimes. Extra pressures, shifting dynamics. I wonder if you've experienced that at all?"

A vivid memory rose unbidden in Isabella's mind - Edward's strong arms lifting her easily from her wheelchair to the bed, his brow furrowed in concern even as he kissed her sweetly. The tenderness of it, but also the frustration. The fragility.

"Yeah," she said hoarsely. "Yeah, I've experienced that."

"Edward was..." She searched for the right words, prying open something that she had deliberately kept shut tight. "He was always so protective. From the very beginning, even when we were just friends. He'd walk slower to match my pace, carry my books, help me navigate steps. And I loved him for it. I did."

Dr. Klein nodded in understanding. "That's a common dynamic in relationships where one partner has a disability. The able-bodied partner can fall into a caretaker role, even with the best intentions."

"Exactly," Isabella said, relief coloring her tone. "And I appreciate everything. I really do. I … I don't think many men out there would do all he does. But…But sometimes..."

"Sometimes?" Dr. Klein prompted gently when I trailed off.

"Sometimes I wonder if that's all he saw." Her voice cracked like broken glass. "He was always so careful with me. Like I was made of glass, and I'd break under a little bit of pressure."

"And how did that make you feel?"

"Safe," I admitted. "But also...frustrated? Like now I wonder if he thought I couldn't take it, the harsher things." She wiped at my eyes, frustrated to find them wet. "You know what's funny? When we first started dating - really dating, not just dancing around each other - I was so worried about the physical stuff. About being intimate with someone when my body is so...unpredictable. But Edward never made me feel self-conscious about that. Not once."

Dr. Klein tilted her head. "It sounds like there's a 'but' coming."

Bella laughed wetly and darkly. "But he did make me feel like I wasn't fully his partner. Not on purpose. Never on purpose."

"Did you ever talk to him about this?"

"No," she croaked. "I was afraid to… Afraid of hurting him when he was trying so hard to take care of me. Afraid of seeming ungrateful when he loved me so much." She her hands. "I think that's part of why everything fell apart in the end. We never really learned how to be honest with each other about the hard stuff."

"Tell me more about that," Dr. Klein said, her voice gentle but firm. "About not being honest with each other."

She shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position as her right leg spasmed. "It's like...Edward always wanted to make things easier for me. Which sounds wonderful, right? But sometimes making things easier meant making them smaller. More contained."

"Can you give me an example?"

"The weird thing is, Edward was the one person who never treated me like I was broken. He just treated me like I was...precious. Fragile. And maybe that's worse, in some ways."

"How so?"

"Because when you're precious, you have to be perfect. Contained. Safe. You can't be messy or angry or make your own mistakes. You're this...this thing to be protected. Sometimes I think that's why he kept so many secrets from me. He wasn't just protecting himself - he thought he was protecting me too. From all the messy, complicated parts of his life that might upset me."

Dr. Klein was quiet for a moment, letting her words settle in the room. "Isabella, what do you think you needed from Edward that you weren't getting?"

"I needed..." The thought came together as if she had just untangled balls of yarn and made them into a knit sweater. "I needed him to to trust me with the burdens. To trust that I could handle the messy parts of life - his life, my life, our life together."

March 2015

Twenty-five / Twenty-seven

"How did this week go?" Dr. Klein asked, settling into her chair with that careful attention Isabella had come to appreciate.

"I tried that café near my office," Isabella said. "The one that makes homemade soups. I used to love their tomato bisque, before..." She gestured vaguely, encompassing everything that had changed. "I actually finished a whole bowl."

Dr. Klein nodded encouragingly. "How did that feel?"

"Terrifying," Isabella admitted. "But also... good? I forgot how much I enjoyed just sitting somewhere warm, reading while I eat." Her voice softened. "I used to do that all the time in college. Before Edward and I started dating."

She'd chosen a window seat, watching the rain fall while she ate. For a moment, she'd felt almost peaceful. Then the anxiety had crept back - about calories, about money spent on restaurant food when she should be saving, about being seen eating alone.

"The hardest part," Isabella continued, her hands beginning to tremble slightly, "is dinner. The apartment feels so empty. I keep cooking for two by accident, then throwing half away." She swallowed hard. "And I keep thinking about money. About how I should be saving instead of buying groceries that might go bad."

"That's a lot of pressure to put on yourself," Dr. Klein observed. "To heal your relationship with food while managing practical concerns."

Isabella nodded, tears threatening. "I applied for a promotion at work," she said quietly. "The director position for our education initiative. I never would have considered it before - I was content letting Edward be the ambitious one. But now..."

Now she was feeling financial pressures.

All her adult life, Edward had quietly, steadily taken care of everything: things as minor as the cat's kibble to things as major as her prescriptions. "I know you'll get going eventually," Edward would say quietly when she frowned with embarrassment, when she thanked him, without being too maudlin or sweet, stroking her hair. She had been too wordless with gratitude, and so she had just hugged him.

When her first paycheck finally landed, nearly 18 months later, Isabella had finally taken on some of the load. It was a matter of dignity for her: she paid for groceries when she could and for utilities.

And still.

With Edward, Isabella had never had to think too hard about rent, groceries, or utilities. If one month she had to pay out of pocket for Stella Ramirez' services, Edward would fill the fridge to the brim – not without offering to pay for Stella first. If another month her joints hurt so bad she needed sodium diclofenac, Edward was there to support her.

Now that she was paying for everything, her debit card had gone into overdraft for the first time in her adult life.

Isabella was quiet for a moment, considering. "I think I needed to grow up without Edward for a bit. I think I'm tired of making myself smaller. In every way." She gestured to her thin frame. "I keep remembering what you said about control. How food became this way of feeling in control when everything else was chaos. But maybe there are better ways."

"Like applying for promotions?" Dr. Klein suggested with a small smile.

"Like that," Isabella agreed. "And like... I bought real groceries yesterday. Not just protein shakes. I got ingredients to make banana bread." Her voice caught. "I used to love baking."

Dr. Klein made a note. "What stopped you?"

"Esme always had opinions about carbs," Isabella said with a bitter laugh. "And then it just became easier not to cook. To measure everything. To..." She trailed off, realizing something. "To make myself acceptable. Perfect. Like a doll."

"That's a powerful insight," Dr. Klein said. "What would it look like to be imperfect? To eat the banana bread, to take up space, to ask for what you want?"

Isabella felt tears slip down her cheeks. "I don't know," she whispered. "But I think I want to find out."

When she got home that evening, she didn't immediately change into pajamas and curl up with work. Instead, she wheeled into her kitchen, pulled out flour and overripe bananas, and began to measure ingredients - not with clinical precision, but with the muscle memory of childhood Sunday afternoons. The familiar motions were soothing, even when her tremors made her spill vanilla extract.

The apartment filled with the smell of baking, and for the first time in months, it felt like hers rather than just an empty space Edward had left behind. She ate a slice while it was still warm, letting herself enjoy it without calculating calories or consequences.

It wasn't perfect. But maybe, she thought, that was okay.

By March, Isabella's muscles had become impossibly tight. She felt it most in the mornings – the way her legs would seize up, refusing to cooperate, the spasticity making even the simplest transfers from bed to wheelchair a herculean task. She'd been skipping her evening stretches.

"Your tone is through the roof," Stella said during their assessment. "What happened to your home exercise program?"

Bella couldn't meet her eyes. "I... haven't been keeping up with it."

"Isabella." Stella's voice was gentle but firm. "You know better than this. These muscles need daily maintenance."

"I know," Bella whispered. "I just... Edward used to..."

Understanding dawned on Stella's face. "Aw, honey."

The tears came then, hot and sudden, as Stella worked on her right leg. The position was so familiar – lying on her back on the padded table, knee bent, Stella applying careful pressure to stretch her hamstring. But the hands were wrong. Everything was wrong.

"He knew exactly how to do this," Bella said quietly "Every night, like clockwork. Even when he was exhausted from hospital rotations, he never skipped it. He said it was as important as eating or sleeping."

Stella worked in silence for a moment. "He was right about that," she said finally. "But honey, you can manage these stretches by yourself."

"It's not just the stretches," Bella admitted. "It was... it was our time. No matter how busy or stressed we were, we had those twenty minutes. He'd tell me about his day, or…Sometimes we'd just be quiet together. And now everything's quiet all the time."

Stella moved to her other leg, working out the knots of tension with practiced hands. "Your body is grieving too," she said softly. "The muscles remember."

They worked together for an hour, Stella guiding Bella through each stretch and exercise. By the end, her muscles felt looser, but her heart felt raw.

"I'm going to write down the sequence," Stella said, pulling out her notepad. "Just like we did when you were younger, remember? Step by step."

Bella nodded, wiping her eyes. "I remember."

"And I want to see you twice a week until we get this under control." Stella's tone brooked no argument. "Your body needs consistency right now. Structure."

That night, Bella lay on her bed with Stella's written instructions beside her. Pancake watched curiously from his perch on the dresser as she began the familiar sequence. Her hands weren't as sure as Edward's had been. They shook as she tried to find the right pressure points, the right angles.

Start with the right leg. Bend knee to chest. Hold for count of ten. Breathe.

Edward's voice echoed in her head, years of gentle instruction layered into muscle memory. "Not too fast, love. Let the muscle release on its own."

She had to stop halfway through, overwhelmed by sense memory – the ghost of his hands on her legs, the remembered timbre of his voice, the way he'd kiss her knee when they were finished. "All done, sweetheart. You did great."

Pancake jumped onto the bed, butting his head against her hand as she cried. She gathered the cat close, burying her face in his fur until the wave of grief passed.

The next night, she tried again. And the next. Some nights she cried through the whole routine. Some nights she was too angry to cry – angry at Edward, at herself, at the circumstances that made these exercises necessary in the first place. But she did them. Every night, mechanical and precise, following Stella's written instructions until her hands stopped shaking quite so much, until the movements began to feel natural again.

"Your tone is better," Stella said during their next session. "Still tight, but better."

Bella nodded. "I've been doing them every night. It's... hard. But I'm doing them."

"The body remembers," Stella said again, working on a particularly stubborn knot in Bella's calf. "But it also adapts. Makes new patterns. New memories."

"I miss him like crazy," Bella whispered. "Every night at 9:30, like clockwork, I miss him."

"Of course you do, hun." Stella's hands were gentle but firm, guiding Bella's leg through the stretch. "But look – you're taking care of yourself anyway. That's no small thing."

It wasn't a small thing. It was exhausting and heartbreaking and necessary. Some nights she still couldn't bring herself to do the full routine. Some nights her hands still shook too badly to maintain the right pressure. Some nights the memory of Edward's gentle hands was too much to bear.

But she kept trying. Keep pushing through the muscle memory of loss, building new patterns, new routines. Learning to take care of herself in all the ways he used to take care of her.