Chapter 4

The discharge papers felt heavier than they should have in Isabella's hands. Two days in the county hospital had cost her nearly a thousand dollars even with the charity care discount. A thousand dollars she didn't have. A thousand dollars that could have bought diapers and formula and all the things her newborn daughter needed.

"Sign here, here, and here," the nurse said, her voice kind but tired. She'd probably processed dozens of discharge papers that day alone, seen dozens of scared new mothers walking out into uncertain futures.

Isabella signed with shaking hands, her body still aching from labor. Lily slept in her arms, wrapped in a thin hospital blanket that Isabella would need to return. She'd dressed her daughter in the only outfit she owned—a simple white onesie Grace had brought to the hospital, along with a car seat Isabella knew her friend couldn't afford either.

"You have follow-up appointments scheduled?" the nurse asked, checking her tablet.

"Yes." Isabella had the paper somewhere in the diaper bag Grace had assembled. Appointments she had no idea how she'd afford or get to, but she had them scheduled.

"And someone picking you up?"

"My friend is waiting downstairs."

The nurse smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She'd seen this before—young mothers leaving alone, no partner waiting, no family support. "Take care of yourself, honey. That baby needs you healthy."

Isabella nodded, not trusting herself to speak without crying.

Grace was parked illegally in front of the hospital, hazards blinking. She jumped out when she saw Isabella, rushing over to help. "Let me take her. You look like you're about to collapse."

"I'm fine." But Isabella wasn't fine. Every step hurt. Her body felt like it had been torn apart and badly reassembled. The painkillers they'd given her were already wearing off, and she couldn't afford to refill the prescription.

The car seat installation took fifteen minutes of Grace cursing and YouTube videos before they finally got it secured. Lily slept through the whole thing, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. She was so small. So fragile. So completely dependent on Isabella not screwing this up.

"Where to?" Grace asked once they were both buckled in.

Back to the motel. Back to Room 12 with its water-stained ceiling and questionable heating. Back to the place Isabella had been calling home for the past nine months.

"The motel, I guess."

Grace was quiet for a long moment, navigating through hospital traffic. Then she said, "You can't raise a baby in a motel room, Bella."

"I don't have a choice. It's all I can afford right now."

"Stay with me. My apartment is tiny, but we'll make it work. You and Lily can have the bedroom, I'll take the couch—"

"Grace, no. You've already done too much." Isabella's voice cracked despite her best efforts. "You gave me fifteen thousand dollars. You've been supporting me for months. I can't ask for more."

"You're not asking. I'm offering. You're my sister, Bella. The only family I've got." Grace's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "And I'm not letting you raise that baby in a place where the shower barely works and there's mold in the corners."

Isabella looked down at Lily, at her perfect face and tiny fingers. She thought about the motel room—the noise from the highway, the suspicious stains on the carpet, the neighbors who played loud music at 2 AM. Was that really where she wanted to bring her daughter home?

But Grace's apartment was barely bigger than the motel room. And Isabella had already taken so much.

"One month," Isabella finally said. "Just until I get back on my feet. I'll find a real apartment, something we can afford—"

"However long you need," Grace interrupted. "I mean it. However long."

They drove to the motel first so Isabella could collect her things. The room looked even smaller and sadder than usual. All of Isabella's possessions fit into two suitcases and a few garbage bags. Five years ago, she'd lived in a penthouse that probably cost more per month than most people made in a year. Now everything she owned could fit in the trunk of Grace's ten-year-old Honda.

"Ready?" Grace asked, loading the last bag.

Isabella took one final look at Room 12. She'd cried herself to sleep here. Felt her baby kick for the first time here. Made the decision to survive here, no matter what it took.

"Yeah. I'm ready."

Grace's apartment was in a slightly better neighborhood, though not by much. A fourth-floor walk-up with peeling paint and a landlord who only fixed things when legally required. But it had a working shower and windows that locked and neighbors who mostly minded their own business.

"Home sweet home," Grace said, helping Isabella up the stairs. Each step was agony, but Isabella gritted her teeth and kept moving. Lily started fussing halfway up, her tiny cries echoing in the stairwell.

"Shh, baby girl. Almost there." Isabella bounced her gently, the motion making her incision site scream. The doctors had wanted to do a C-section after twenty hours of labor, but Isabella had refused. Surgery meant longer recovery, more time off work, more money she didn't have. She'd pushed through the pain and delivered naturally, tearing badly in the process.

Now she was paying for that decision with every movement.

Grace's apartment was exactly as Isabella remembered—small but cozy, decorated with thrift store finds and DIY projects. The bedroom wasn't much bigger than a closet, but Grace had already set up the bassinet and cleared out the dresser.

"I got some basics," Grace said, opening drawers to show onesies, diapers, wipes, bottles. "It's not much, but it should hold you over for a week or so."

Isabella's vision blurred with tears. "Grace—"

"Don't. If you thank me one more time, I'm going to lose it." Grace wiped her own eyes. "Just focus on healing and taking care of that baby. Everything else, we'll figure out together."

The first night was hell.

Lily woke every two hours like clockwork, screaming for food. Isabella's milk hadn't come in yet, so she supplemented with formula they could barely afford. Each feeding took thirty minutes minimum—preparing the bottle, feeding Lily, burping her, changing her diaper, getting her back to sleep. By the time Isabella collapsed back into bed, she had maybe ninety minutes before the cycle started again.

By morning, Isabella felt like she'd been hit by a truck. Her body ached everywhere. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep. Her breasts were rock-hard and painful as her milk finally came in. And Lily, beautiful perfect Lily, needed to be fed again.

Grace found her at 6 AM, sitting on the floor of the bedroom crying while Lily screamed in the bassinet.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" Grace crouched beside her, alarmed.

"I can't do this." The words tumbled out between sobs. "I can't. She won't stop crying, and I don't know what she needs, and I'm so tired I can barely think, and what if I'm a terrible mother? What if I can't give her what she needs?"

Grace gently picked up Lily, who immediately quieted at the change of scenery. "You're not a terrible mother. You're an exhausted mother, which is completely different. When's the last time you ate anything?"

Isabella couldn't remember. Yesterday maybe? Time had become meaningless, measured only in feeding cycles and diaper changes.

"Okay. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to take a shower. A real shower, not a five-minute rush. Then you're going to eat the breakfast I'm about to make. Then you're going to sleep for four hours while I watch Lily."

"Grace, you have work—"

"I called in sick. Bella, look at me." Grace waited until Isabella met her eyes. "You just pushed a human being out of your body two days ago. You're allowed to need help. You're allowed to fall apart a little. That doesn't make you weak or a bad mother. It makes you human."

Isabella nodded, too exhausted to argue.

The shower was heaven. Hot water washing away sweat and tears and the constant feeling of being not enough. Isabella stood under the spray until it ran cold, letting herself just exist without thinking or worrying or planning.

When she emerged, Grace had made eggs and toast and coffee so strong it could probably strip paint. Lily slept in Grace's arms, finally content.

"Eat," Grace commanded. "All of it."

Isabella ate mechanically, her body running on autopilot. The food helped more than she'd expected, energy slowly returning to limbs that had felt like dead weight.

"Better?" Grace asked.

"A little." Isabella reached for Lily, needing to hold her daughter, to remember why she was doing all of this. Lily's tiny hand wrapped around her finger, and something in Isabella's chest cracked open. "I love her so much it terrifies me."

"That's parenthood, from what I hear. Constant terror wrapped in overwhelming love."

"What if I screw her up? What if I can't give her everything she needs? What if—"

"Stop." Grace's voice was firm. "You're going to drive yourself crazy with what-ifs. Take it one day at a time. One hour at a time if you have to. You don't need to have everything figured out right now."

But Isabella did need to figure things out. She had maybe seven thousand dollars left in savings. No job. A newborn who needed diapers and formula and doctor visits. In six weeks, she'd need to find childcare so she could go back to work. The math didn't add up no matter how she calculated it.

The first week blurred together in a haze of sleepless nights and constant feeding. Isabella's body slowly healed, the pain lessening each day. Her milk supply regulated. Lily's feeding schedule became slightly more predictable. They found a rhythm, chaotic and exhausting but manageable.

Grace went back to work after four days, leaving Isabella alone with Lily for the first time. The panic was immediate and overwhelming. What if something went wrong? What if Lily stopped breathing or choked or had some medical emergency Isabella couldn't handle?

But nothing went wrong. Lily ate and slept and cried and filled diapers, the same cycle repeating every few hours. Isabella managed, barely, operating on determination and caffeine.

Tony from the diner called on day eight. "How you doing, kid?"

"Surviving." Isabella had Lily propped on her shoulder, bouncing gently to keep her from crying. "How's the diner?"

"Same as always. Busy, chaotic, barely profitable." He paused. "Listen, I know you just had a baby, but when you're ready to come back, your job's waiting. No rush. Take whatever time you need."

Isabella's throat tightened. "Thank you, Tony. Really."

"Yeah, yeah. Just take care of yourself and that baby. And Bella? You're a tough kid. You're gonna be fine."

After he hung up, Isabella let herself cry. Not from sadness but from the overwhelming kindness of people who barely knew her showing more care than her own husband ever had.

Mrs. Chen from the bookstore visited on day ten, bringing a massive bag of baby clothes her grandchildren had outgrown. "For Lily," she said simply, pressing the bag into Isabella's hands. "And this." She handed over an envelope with five hundred dollars cash. "For whatever you need."

"Mrs. Chen, I can't—"

"Yes, you can. You work hard. You good person. Let people help you."

Isabella learned to accept help, even when pride screamed against it. She applied for WIC and food stamps, swallowing her shame as she filled out forms asking about her financial situation. She went to free baby classes at the community center, learning about infant care and development alongside other struggling mothers. She joined a young moms' support group where everyone understood the bone-deep exhaustion and constant worry.

By week three, something shifted. Isabella looked at Lily one morning—really looked at her—and felt something beyond terror and exhaustion. Joy. Pure, uncomplicated joy at this tiny person who depended on her for everything.

"Good morning, baby girl," Isabella whispered, lifting Lily from the bassinet. "Let's see what today brings."

What today brought was a phone call from a number Isabella didn't recognize.

"Is this Isabella Blake?" A woman's voice, professional and crisp.

"Yes?"

"This is Sarah Mitchell. I'm a family therapist who works with the community center. Your name was given to me by the young mothers' support group coordinator. She mentioned you might benefit from some individual sessions."

Isabella's first instinct was to refuse. Therapy meant talking about feelings she'd rather keep buried. It meant confronting everything she'd been running from. It meant admitting she wasn't handling everything perfectly.

But then Lily made a small sound, and Isabella thought about being the mother her daughter deserved. A mother who dealt with her trauma instead of passing it on.

"How much do sessions cost?"

"I work on a sliding scale. For someone in your financial situation, we can start at fifteen dollars per session."

Fifteen dollars. Isabella could manage fifteen dollars.

"Okay. When can we start?"

The first therapy session happened two days later. Grace watched Lily while Isabella took the bus to Dr. Mitchell's office in a converted brownstone. The waiting room was warm and comfortable, nothing like the cold sterile offices Isabella had imagined.

Dr. Mitchell was younger than expected, maybe mid-thirties, with kind eyes and an easy smile. "Thanks for coming, Isabella. I know reaching out for help isn't easy."

"I'm not sure I need help," Isabella said automatically, then stopped herself. "Actually, that's not true. I'm a mess. I'm terrified all the time. I'm exhausted and broke and have no idea what I'm doing."

"That's a good start. Being honest about where you are." Dr. Mitchell settled into her chair. "Tell me about Lily."

Isabella talked about her daughter—the way Lily's face scrunched up before crying, how she slept with her tiny fists by her face, the smell of her head that Isabella couldn't get enough of. Talking about Lily was easy. Safe.

"And Lily's father?"

Isabella's walls slammed up immediately. "Not in the picture."

"By your choice or his?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might." Dr. Mitchell's voice stayed gentle, non-judgmental. "You don't have to talk about him today. Or ever, if you don't want to. But at some point, we'll need to address the trauma you're carrying. I can see it in the way you hold yourself, like you're waiting for the next blow."

Isabella looked down at her hands, at the fingers that had once worn a wedding ring worth more than most cars. "I was married to someone who made me feel worthless. Who threw me away in the cruelest way possible. And now I have his daughter, and I'm terrified she'll ask questions I don't know how to answer."

"Like what?"

"Like why her father didn't want her. Why he chose everything else over us." Isabella's voice broke. "How do I tell a little girl that her father is a monster without making her think something's wrong with her?"

"You tell her the truth, in age-appropriate ways. That sometimes adults make choices that hurt people they love. That his failures aren't her fault or yours." Dr. Mitchell leaned forward slightly. "But first, you need to believe that yourself. Do you believe his treatment of you wasn't your fault?"

Isabella wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe she hadn't deserved the humiliation and abandonment. But years of Victoria's subtle put-downs and Damien's cold indifference had wormed their way deep into her psyche.

"I'm working on it," she finally said.

"That's honest. We'll keep working on it together."

The session ended with homework—journaling about her feelings, practicing positive self-talk, allowing herself to feel angry instead of just sad. Small steps toward healing.

Isabella left feeling lighter somehow, like sharing the burden had made it slightly more manageable.

At home, Grace had Lily strapped to her chest in a baby carrier, doing dishes while narrating her actions. "And now Auntie Grace is washing the sippy cup even though you don't use sippy cups yet, but we're being proactive..."

"How'd it go?" Grace asked when Isabella walked in.

"Good, I think. Weird but good." Isabella reached for Lily, needing to hold her. "Did she behave?"

"Perfect angel. We had a very productive conversation about the merits of afternoon naps, though she disagreed with my position."

Isabella laughed—actually laughed—for the first time in weeks. Maybe she could do this. Maybe they'd be okay.

By week six, Isabella had fallen into a rhythm. Wake at 6 AM with Lily's first feeding. Keep her entertained and fed and changed throughout the day. Squeeze in household chores during naps. Start looking at childcare options and job listings even though the thought of leaving Lily made her chest ache.

She'd regained some weight, her body slowly recovering from pregnancy and months of poor nutrition. Her hair was growing back in (apparently postpartum hair loss was a thing nobody warned you about). She looked in the mirror one morning and recognized herself again—not the Isabella who'd been Damien's wife, but not the broken girl who'd collapsed in the rain either. Someone new. Someone stronger.

Lily was growing too, getting bigger and more alert each day. She started smiling—real smiles, not just gas—and Isabella melted every single time. Those smiles made every sleepless night and moment of terror worth it.

"You're going to be okay, baby girl," Isabella whispered during a 3 AM feeding, Lily's eyes wide and trusting in the dim light. "We're both going to be okay."

She was starting to believe it.

The job search proved harder than expected. Daycares were expensive—more expensive than Isabella's rent would be if she could afford her own apartment. And most places wanted babies to be older than six weeks. Isabella called at least twenty childcare providers, getting rejected or quoted prices that made her want to cry.

Finally, a woman named Rosa Martinez who ran a small home daycare agreed to meet with her. "Bring the baby," Rosa said over the phone. "Let's talk."

Rosa's house was in a quieter neighborhood than Isabella expected, a small but well-maintained home with a fenced yard. Rosa herself was maybe fifty, with warm brown eyes and the kind of face that suggested she'd seen hard times but come out softer rather than harder.

"This is Lily," Isabella said, holding her daughter like a shield.

Rosa's face lit up. "Oh, she's beautiful. How old?"

"Six weeks."

"Young, but I've had younger. Come in, let me show you around."

The house was clean and baby-proofed, with educational toys and soft play areas. Rosa watched three other children currently—a toddler playing with blocks, a baby napping in a pack-and-play, and a three-year-old coloring at a small table.

"I do ages six weeks to five years," Rosa explained. "Hot meals included, no extra charges for diapers or wipes if you supply them weekly. Two hundred a week, but I can work with you on price if needed."

Two hundred a week was still a lot, but it was manageable. Maybe. If Isabella could find a job that paid enough.

"I need to be honest," Isabella said. "Money is tight. Really tight. And I need to find work before I can commit to childcare."

Rosa studied her for a long moment. "You're the girl who ran from money, aren't you? The one with the billionaire husband?"

Isabella's blood went cold. "How did you—"

"My daughter showed me the pictures. It was all over social media months ago, some big public divorce." Rosa's expression wasn't judgmental, just curious. "I don't care about your past. I care if you're a good mother. Are you?"

"I'm trying to be."

"That's the only answer that matters." Rosa reached out to touch Lily's tiny hand. "Here's what we'll do. You bring Lily to me when you find work. We'll start at a hundred a week until you're on your feet. Fair?"

Isabella's eyes filled with tears. "That's incredibly generous."

"I raised two kids on my own. I know how hard it is." Rosa smiled. "We single mothers need to stick together."

With childcare arranged, Isabella intensified her job search. She applied to dozens of positions, getting rejected from most. Too educated for retail, not experienced enough for marketing firms, too recently pregnant to trust with demanding hours. The discrimination was subtle but real.

Finally, a small marketing startup called her for an interview. The pay was entry-level, barely above minimum wage, but it was something. A foot in the door.

Isabella showed up in her one professional outfit—the suit she'd worn to leave the hospital, dry-cleaned with the last of her money. She'd practiced her responses, researched the company, prepared questions that showed she was serious.

The interview lasted thirty minutes. The manager, a woman in her forties named Jennifer, asked standard questions about experience and skills. At the end, she said, "You're overqualified for this position. Why do you want it?"

Isabella could have lied. Could have given some corporate answer about growth opportunities and company values. Instead, she went with honesty.

"Because I have a six-week-old daughter and about five thousand dollars left in savings. Because I need to support my child and prove to myself that I can build a life worth living. Because I'm a hard worker who learns fast, and I'll do whatever it takes to succeed."

Jennifer was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled. "You start Monday. Nine to five, entry-level marketing coordinator. It's not glamorous, and it won't make you rich, but we value hard work and honesty."

Isabella could have kissed her.

That weekend, she moved Lily's bassinet into Grace's bedroom and started setting up a routine that would work with her new schedule. Wake at 5:30, feed Lily, get them both ready, drop Lily at Rosa's by 8:15, rush to work by 8:45. Work until 5, pick up Lily by 5:30, come home exhausted, repeat.

"You sure you can handle this?" Grace asked, watching Isabella pack Lily's diaper bag for the first day.

"I have to. We need the money."

"I could chip in more—"

"No." Isabella's voice was firm. "You've done enough. More than enough. It's time I stood on my own feet."

Monday morning came too fast. Isabella fed Lily at 5:30, got herself dressed and presentable, packed the diaper bag with shaking hands. This was it. The first day of the rest of their lives.

Rosa greeted them warmly, taking Lily with practiced ease. "She'll be fine. Babies are resilient. It's the mamas who have trouble letting go."

Isabella kissed Lily's forehead, breathing in her baby smell one more time. "Be good for Miss Rosa. Mama loves you so much."

Walking away from her daughter for the first time was one of the hardest things Isabella had ever done. She cried the entire bus ride to work, mascara running down her face. But she'd made it. She'd survived pregnancy alone, childbirth alone, six weeks of new motherhood alone. She could survive this too.

The first day of work was overwhelming. New systems to learn, new people to meet, new responsibilities to master. Isabella threw herself into it, determined to prove she deserved this chance.

At lunch, she pumped breast milk in the bathroom stall because the company was too small to have a dedicated lactation room. At 3 PM, she almost called Rosa to check on Lily but forced herself not to. At 4:45, she started watching the clock, counting down minutes until she could leave.

When she finally picked up Lily at 5:30, her daughter was sleeping peacefully, completely unbothered by their separation. Rosa smiled knowingly. "See? She's fine. How was your first day?"

"Hard. Good. Exhausting." Isabella gathered Lily into her arms, holding her close. "But we made it."

"You did. And you'll make it tomorrow too."

That night, lying in bed with Lily asleep beside her, Isabella allowed herself to feel proud. She'd survived the divorce. The pregnancy. Childbirth. Six weeks of newborn chaos. Her first day back at work.

She was doing it. Actually doing it. Building a life from nothing.

"We're going to be okay," she whispered to Lily's sleeping form. "I promise you, baby girl. We're going to be more than okay."

And for the first time, Isabella truly believed it.