Six Years Earlier

You don’t even realize you have everything until your whole life falls apart.

I’ve been married to Nick for three years now. I married him as planned, despite the psychic’s warning. And surprise, surprise—nothing horrible happened. Nick never murdered anyone. He’s been a pretty great husband, all things considered. And for a long time, our lives were good. Rosalie’s is thriving, and even the motel is turning a nice profit. We were fixing up the house we live in—a monster job—but we got sidetracked because…

I got pregnant.

We were waiting for our businesses to be a bit more stable and to finish our renovation work on the house, even though Nick was keen to get a move on and have our five babies. (Yeah, right.) Finally, he persuaded me to go off birth control, and on our very first try, we made a baby.

Then only two weeks after my positive pregnancy test, the bleeding started.

Nick took it worse than I did. He was so excited about starting a family, and he had already been suggesting terrible baby names. I was sad about it too, but I had read how common early pregnancy losses are, especially for a first pregnancy. I was sad, but I knew we would try again.

Then a week after my miscarriage, I woke up unable to feel my right foot.

Now it’s four months later. I’m sitting in the office of a neurologist named Dr. Heller, a tall, thin woman with half- moon glasses that rest low on the bridge of her nose. She has two armchairs set up in front of her desk—Nick is sitting

in one and I’m in the other. My cane is leaning against the desk, because I would fall if I tried to walk without it. And Dr. Heller has just uttered two words that will completely change my life.

“Multiple sclerosis?” Nick blurts out. His face looks how mine feels. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says simply. “Technically, you need to be having symptoms for a year to make this diagnosis, but I feel fairly certain. And unfortunately, you have a primary progressive form of the disease, since your neurological symptoms have gotten no better, even with the steroids, and have in fact progressed.”

She’s right. The symptoms have not gotten better—not even a little bit. They have progressed. The numbness has spread to my other foot.

“So what’s the treatment?” he asks.

“With primary progressive multiple sclerosis, there’s no proven treatment,” she says. “We can try some medications, but…”

No treatment. There’s nothing we can do. I will continue to progress.

Nick shakes his head. “I don’t understand how this happened. She doesn’t have any weird neurological diseases in her family.”

“It doesn’t always run in families,” Dr. Heller says. “It’s possible in your case, the pregnancy triggered it. And there’s a chance that if you get pregnant again, your symptoms could get worse.”

“A chance,” he repeats. “So it’s not for sure?”

“No,” she says. “It’s uncertain. Especially since Rosalie has a much less common form of the disease. But you should be aware of the possibility.”

We return home after that appointment, both of us visibly shaken. Nick hardly says a word the entire drive home. That muscle twitches in his jaw the way it always does when he’s upset. I spend most of the drive staring out

the window, trying to figure out what’s going to happen for the rest of my life.

The tower card. The life-altering revelation. Multiple sclerosis. The end of life as I know it.

It’s come true.

When we walk into our house, I sit down at the kitchen table, but Nick just stands there. He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, but it’s obvious he has something to say. I look up at him, waiting. And then he says it.

“So it’s just a possibility, right?” He folds his arms across his chest. “That doesn’t mean if you get pregnant again, you’re definitely going to get worse.”

I knew that’s what he was thinking. I knew it, but I wasn’t sure if he would have the gall to say it. I mean, it’s easy for him to be glib about it. He’s not the one whose body is literally attacking itself.

I glare at him. “So you’re okay with taking that chance?”

His face falls. “Rosie, you want a family too, don’t you? I thought we were on the same page. Five kids, right?”

I can’t even joke about it. There’s nothing funny about what’s happening to us right now. “I’m not willing to sacrifice everything for it though.”

“Yes, but…” His voice drops. “Our family is everything too.”

“So I’m not enough for you?”

“No. No.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s just… It’s a lot to give up. You know?”

Of course I know. I’ve wanted to be a mother my whole life. But over the last four months, I’ve been learning how hard it is to walk without being able to feel my feet. If this gets worse, I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know how I’ll be able to run the restaurant. And I certainly don’t know how I’ll be able to run after a bunch of kids.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just can’t risk it.” “But…”

“The answer is no, Nick. I won’t change my mind.”

He looks stricken. He collapses into a chair across from me. “Okay…”

There’s a lump in my throat. He’s right. It’s a lot to give up. And he’s always wanted to have kids so badly. It’s not right to ask this of him.

“Listen…” I reach for his hand, and he gives it to me reluctantly. “I love you, but I understand if you want to… If this is too much for you. I would understand. We don’t have to be together if you don’t want to be anymore.”

Nick jerks his head back. “What are you talking about?

You think I want to break up?”

“I’m just saying. I would understand.”

He squeezes my hand firmly in his. “Look, I’m not thrilled about this. Obviously. But I love you. And there’s nothing that would make me not want to be with you anymore.”

We sit there together in the kitchen for a long time, holding hands and contemplating what the rest of our lives will be like together. I have no idea at that moment how bad things are going to get.

Four Years Earlier

I hate the ceiling of our bedroom.

We had it painted when we moved in, but it’s covered in cracks. Whoever painted it did a terrible job. The cracks are all over the place, forming spiderweb patterns in the white plaster. It needs to be redone, but let’s face it, that’s the least of our problems. It doesn’t even make the top twenty.

“Rosie?”

I didn’t even realize the sound of the shower had turned off. I shut my eyes, feeling that familiar wave of fatigue wash over me. I slept all night, but I’m still exhausted. When

the alarm went off ten minutes ago, I woke up to shut it off, but I felt far from ready to get out of bed.

“Rosie?”

Nick is out of the shower. His dark blond hair looks even darker from the water, and he has a towel wrapped around his waist, revealing a pretty nice upper body. He looks really good. Every bit as handsome as the day I fell in love with him. Maybe more—he’s grown up from that sixteen-year-old boy.

I don’t want to think about what he must see when he looks at me now.

“Hey, Rosie,” he says. “I got the bench set up in the shower for you if you want to go in.”

He grabs my walker and brings it to the side of the bed. I never got pregnant again, but it didn’t matter. My legs got weaker anyway, even faster than Dr. Heller predicted. I went from a cane to crutches, and now I use a walker most of the time. At my appointment last week, Dr. Heller wrote a prescription for a wheelchair.

I’m still working at the restaurant, but it’s gotten very difficult. I’m struggling. It’s not just that I’m having difficulty walking and getting around. My brain is muddled. I mix up orders and forget what I’m doing in the middle of doing it. It’s embarrassing.

“Rosie? Do you need help sitting up?”

I stare at him. I have to get up and get to the restaurant. To my job that I love, that I dreamed of all my life. Except I just… don’t want to. The idea of getting out of bed, taking a shower, getting dressed… even running a comb through my hair is so exhausting. I can’t even contemplate it.

“I’m not getting up,” I say. He frowns. “Are you sick?”

He’s so damn nice about everything. So willing to help me with every little thing. I used to love that about him. I never realized until recently how annoying it could be.

“Yes, I’m sick.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed. He reaches for my forehead and I swat him away. “What’s wrong?”

“I have multiple sclerosis.”

He rolls his eyes. “Come on. Get up. There are going to be customers waiting outside.”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t want to work at the restaurant anymore.”

He tries again to reach for me, but I shrug him off. “Is this about the kitchen being accessible? Because I told you, I called a contractor and got a quote—”

“I’m not going back to that restaurant,” I say through my teeth. “Not now. Not ever.”

“But—”

“I’m not going, Nick.”

He gets up off the bed. “So what am I supposed to do?” “There are other people who do the cooking. You can

handle it.”

He presses his lips together. “Fine. I’ll take care of it today. You can have one sick day.”

He throws off the towel and starts getting dressed. Once again, I can’t help but think how attractive my husband is. But the scariest part is I feel nothing right now. Not even the slightest trace of desire. And I’m too tired to care.