Our Viral Love Story

But her eyes dropped to Ella’s legs, resting beneath the blanket, still and narrow. That glance had become familiar - the same glance doctors gave, the same glance neighbors tried not to give, the same glance Ella had learned to fear in mirrors.

She hated it most when her mother looked at her as if she were an unanswered question.

“I can go to the back room,” Ella said. “They won’t hear me there.”

“You don’t have to hide in your own house.”

“I’m not hiding.”

Her mother reached for the chair’s handle. “Then let me take you to the front room.”

Ella caught the wheel before it moved. “No.”

The word cracked between them.

Her mother froze.

Outside, the children had moved on. Their voices faded down the street, but Ella could still feel them circling the house.

“I don’t want the front room,” Ella said.

“Why?”

“Because the windows are too big.”

Her mother looked at the covered glass. “The curtains are closed.”

“They know I’m here.”

“Let them know.”

Ella’s throat tightened. “You don’t understand.”

Her mother’s hand fell from the chair. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The kitchen smelled of fried garlic and warm rice. A ceiling fan clicked above them, turning slowly, turning the silence over and over.

Then her mother whispered, “You’re right. I don’t.”

Ella looked down.

Her mother had said it without anger. That made it worse.

“I’m sorry,” her mother continued. “I’m sorry I can’t make them kind.”

“You can make me stay.”

The words came before Ella could stop them.

Her mother’s face changed. Not surprise. Pain.

Ella wished she could pull the sentence back, but it had already found its place between them.

“I can do that,” her mother said.

She moved behind the chair and pushed Ella toward the bedroom. The hallway was narrow, painted a soft yellow that had darkened near the floor from years of hands and wheels. Ella knew every crack in the tiles. She knew which boards creaked and which doors stuck in damp weather. She knew where the afternoon light reached and where it did not.

The house obeyed her.

Outside, nothing did.

At the bedroom door, her mother stopped. “Your aunt called earlier.”

“Why?”

“She wants you to visit on Sunday.”

Ella’s stomach folded. Her aunt’s house was only three streets away. It had a wide porch, a bright blue gate, and too many people who asked questions while staring at her chair.

“No.”

“Ella - ”

“No.”

“You could stay in the car until we reach the porch.”

“No.”

“You could bring your books.”

“They’ll look at me.”

“Not everyone will.”

“Enough people will.”

Her mother closed her eyes briefly. “You cannot spend your whole life in these rooms.”

Ella gripped the blanket over her knees. “Why not?”

“Because there is a world outside.”

“I don’t need it.”

Her mother’s expression softened, and Ella saw the answer before she heard it.

“You deserve more than this.”

The familiar shame rose hot in Ella’s face. “More than what?”

“More than being afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Her mother glanced toward the window at the end of the hall. “Your hands are shaking.”

Ella tucked them beneath the blanket.

Her mother came around the chair and lowered herself in front of her. The towel still hung from one hand. A small smear of flour marked her cheek.

“When you were inside me,” she said, “I was sick all the time. I took medicine without asking the doctor. I thought it would help me sleep. I thought one small bottle couldn’t hurt anyone.”

Ella stared at her.

Her mother rarely spoke about the beginning. When she did, she spoke as if every word had edges.

“The doctor said your body formed differently,” her mother continued. “He said no one could know for sure what caused it. But I know what I did.”

“You didn’t make me bad.”

“I didn’t say you were bad.”

“You look at me like I’m something you broke.”

Her mother flinched.

Ella wished she had not said it, but the thought had lived in her for years. It had grown each time her mother lifted her from bed, each time she carried her over a step, each time she apologized for rain, stairs, rude strangers, and bodies that refused to make room.

“I don’t look at you that way,” her mother said.

“You do.”

“I look at you and see my daughter.”

“Then stop saying sorry.”

Her mother’s eyes filled. She turned her face away, but not before Ella saw the tears gather.

For a moment, Ella wanted to reach for her. She wanted to say that she understood. Instead, she heard the children again in her memory.

Wheel-girl.

Her hand returned to the wheel.

“I’m tired,” Ella said.

Her mother nodded as though accepting a punishment. “All right.”

She pushed Ella into the bedroom and helped her transfer to the bed. Her movements were careful, practiced. Ella hated needing each lift, each steadying hand. She hated the way her mother held her as if she might fall apart.

When the transfer was done, her mother straightened the blanket and moved the chair beside the bed.

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Don’t answer the gate.”

Her mother paused.

“Please,” Ella added.

“All right.”

“And don’t tell them I’m here.”

“I won’t.”

The door remained open a finger’s width. Ella watched her mother walk away. The towel dangled from her hand. At the end of the hall, she stopped beneath the window, staring at the street as though she could challenge every child who had ever laughed.

Then she lowered the curtain another inch and disappeared.

Ella lay still until the house settled around her.

A motorcycle passed outside. A dog barked. Somewhere nearby, a radio played a love song with a bright, foolish chorus. Ella reached for the book on her bedside table, but the words blurred. She could not stop seeing the faces beyond the gate.

The next morning, her mother brought breakfast to the bedroom.

“You can eat in the front room,” she said.

Ella looked at the tray. Rice, egg, sliced mango. “Here is fine.”

“Your chair is clean.”

“I know.”

“The sun is nice.”

“I know.”

Her mother set the tray across Ella’s lap. “You used to like the sun.”

“I used to be little.”

Her mother sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re still my little girl.”

“I’m not little.”

“No.” Her mother touched the edge of the plate. “You’re not.”

The answer carried something heavier than agreement. Ella looked toward the open door.

“Did they come back?”

“No.”

“They will.”

“Maybe not.”

“They always do.”

Her mother’s hand trembled against the tray. “I’ll ask Larry to speak to their parents when he calls.”

“Larry is in Saudi Arabia.”

“He can still help.”

“He can’t make them stop.”

“No,” her mother said. “But he can remind you that you are loved.”

Ella pushed the mango around with her fork. “Love doesn’t make me walk.”

Her mother went quiet.

Ella regretted it at once. Her father’s voice from Saudi Arabia came to her in memory, warm through the phone’s tiny speaker, telling her about the hot streets and the long shifts and the day he would come home. He never used pity when he spoke to her. He asked about her books. He teased her about sleeping late. He called her brave, though she did not feel brave.

Her mother looked toward the hall. “Your father loves you exactly as you are.”

“Then why does everyone else look away?”

“Not everyone.”

“Enough.”

The word ended breakfast.

That afternoon, a knock sounded at the front door. Ella heard it from her room and felt the house change. Her mother’s footsteps hurried across the floor.

“Who is it?” her mother called.

“Delivery.”

Ella’s breath caught. The voice was young, unfamiliar. She could imagine the stranger standing outside, looking through the gate, wondering why the house stayed so quiet.

Her mother opened the door only a few inches.

“Leave it there,” she said.

The delivery man mumbled something. The gate clicked shut.

Ella did not move until her mother returned.

“You see?” her mother said. “Nothing happened.”

“Something could have.”

“But it didn’t.”

“It will.”

Her mother placed the package on the table. “You cannot live by everything that might happen.”

Ella stared at the hallway, at the thin strip of sunlight beneath the front door.

“I can live here.”

Her mother’s face went pale. “Ella.”

“I can study here. I can read here. I can talk to Dad here. I don’t need the street.”

“You need people.”

“I have you.”

The words should have comforted her. Instead, they made her mother look trapped too.

That evening, her mother moved the small table from the front room into Ella’s bedroom. Then she brought in the lamp, the radio, and the shelf of books. She even carried the potted plant from the porch to the windowsill.

By nightfall, Ella’s room contained everything she needed.

Her mother stood in the doorway, exhausted, her hair loose around her face.

“There,” she said. “You won’t have to pass the front window.”

Ella looked around. The room felt warmer. Safer. The walls seemed closer, but not in a frightening way. They held her chair, her books, her bed, her mother’s careful rearrangements.

“Thank you,” Ella said.

Her mother nodded.

Ella wanted to feel relieved. She did, partly. No one outside could see her here. No one could call her names. No one could watch her struggle across a pavement or pretend not to stare.

Still, when her mother began to close the door, Ella saw the lock.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Keep it locked.”

Her mother’s fingers tightened around the knob.

“Even during the day,” Ella said. “Don’t let anyone in unless you know them.”

Her mother looked at her for a long moment. Guilt moved across her face like a dark stain.

Then she turned the lock.

The click was small.

It sounded like safety.

It also sounded like a promise neither of them knew how to break.

End of chapter one. 9 more chapters and about 21,732 words in the full book.