I had just returned from the hospital after being discharged. My body still felt weak, every limb heavy with exhaustion, but I forced myself to sit up straighter, refusing to show the fragility that had threatened to define me. My chest still ached from the crisis, the lingering reminders of the night before pressing against my ribs like a weight I couldn't shake.
My stepmother quietly entered the room. She moved with her usual calm authority, the kind that could be unsettling if you weren't used to it. But I had learned to anticipate her presence, to brace myself for the sharp edge beneath her gentleness.
"How are you feeling, Esme?" she asked, her voice softer than usual, almost caring. Her eyes were warm, but her gaze probed, as though she wasn't satisfied with simple words, as if she wanted to see the truth behind them.
"I'm fine," I said, forcing a smile. "Better than yesterday. Thank you… for helping me get through it."
Her lips pressed together briefly, and she nodded. "I want to know," she said carefully, "how did it go with Ethan's mother?"
I hesitated, trying to measure the words that would come out of my mouth. "It… went as expected," I said finally. "We talked. I answered her questions, but it was… difficult." My fingers twisted slightly in my lap. "Actually… I wanted to ask you something."
Her eyes lifted, curious and attentive. "Yes?"
I drew in a shaky breath, my throat tight. "Does a sickle cell patient… have a place in marriage?" My voice was soft but steady, deliberate. I met her gaze fully, searching for understanding, guidance, maybe even validation.
She blinked, slightly surprised, and leaned back in her chair. "Where… Did you get that question from?"
"I just… wanted to ask," I admitted. "I needed to hear it from someone I trust. Someone who understands. Someone who knows what life is like."
Her expression softened, and she leaned forward, placing her hand lightly on mine. "Esmeralda," she said gently, "marriage isn't defined by health alone. It's about patience, understanding, trust, and love. A sickle cell patient… you do have a place. You have every right to love, to be loved, and to create a life with someone who values and respects you. But… you must also protect yourself. Life can be cruel sometimes. You have to be strong enough to face it."
I let her words sink in slowly, feeling a small warmth spread through me. Someone could see me, all of me, and not judge me harshly. Not just my illness, but my strength, my fears, my resilience.
"You see, Esme," she continued, her voice calm and steady, "you are strong, yes. But strength doesn't mean you face everything alone. You'll need support. Someone who understands. Someone who chooses to be with you, through the pain, the exhaustion, and the unpredictable moments."
Her advice wrapped around me like a shield, giving me courage I hadn't realized I was missing. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I really needed that. More than I can explain."
Before she could respond, there was a soft knock at the door. My stepmother stood immediately. "I'll see who that is," she murmured.
A familiar voice called out: "It's Ethan."
My chest skipped a beat, and a flutter of nerves traveled through me. The door opened, and there he was – tall, composed, yet with an uncertainty in his eyes that made him undeniably human. My stepmother gave him a brief glance and nodded toward me. "He knows where you are," she said softly.
He moved closer, careful and deliberate, stopping just at the doorway.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice steady, though my heart raced.
"I came to talk," he said quietly.
"Talk about what exactly?" I pressed, my fingers tightening slightly in my lap. "Talk about you watching your mother question my future? Or… talk about how she called me an object behind my back?"
Ethan's jaw tightened. "I… I can explain."
"Explain what?" I challenged gently, keeping my eyes on him.
"She… I didn't mean for you to be judged like that," he said, voice low, tense.
I shook my head slightly, biting my lip. "Ethan… I'm not sure I can handle this pressure. I'm not sure I can do this with you."
He froze, surprised by my words. "Why not?"
"That's because," I whispered, my throat tight, "from your mother's perception… we, sickle cell patients, don't have a place in marriage."
His eyes softened, and he took a step closer. "Esme… that's not true. Not to me. Not to anyone who truly matters. I… I see you. I love you. And your illness does not take that away."
My chest ached at the sincerity in his voice. "But your mother can't see that, Ethan. It's just… too much for me," I admitted, my voice trembling slightly. "Every word, every look… It's like the world expects me to disappear, to not exist fully. And sometimes… I feel like I can't even be enough for you, for anyone."
Ethan reached out, taking my hand gently in his. "You are enough. Always. And I'll remind you every day, if I have to. You are not an object. You are Esmeralda Augustine. Strong, resilient, and completely worthy of love, and I will fight for that, for you, with everything I have."
I swallowed, feeling the tension in my chest loosen slightly. "Thank you," I whispered. "I… needed to hear that."
He nodded, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. "I will always be here, Esme. I won't let anyone make you feel less than what you are. Especially not me."
" Thank you." I said.
We sat together in silence for a long moment, the quiet allowing my thoughts to settle, my fears to breathe. Outside, the world moved on, oblivious to the storm that had raged inside our lives for the past days.
For the first time since the confrontation with his mother, I felt seen. Not tested. Not judged. Not dismissed. But truly understood. And that mattered more than words could convey.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the moment linger, closing my eyes briefly. The storm outside hadn't disappeared, and the judgments, doubts, and uncertainties hadn't vanished. But for now… I could breathe. For now, Ethan was here, and I wasn't facing it alone.
And that made all the difference.