Twenty one year old Beca Mitchell glanced into the rear view mirror, smiling a little at what she saw. Three year old Ivy was buckled into her car seat, cheerfully humming to herself while she watched whatever cartoon was the flavour of the day on the iPad. A bag of crackers rested in her lap and the carton of strawberry milk sat in the cup holder, just within reach of her little arms.

"We'll be there soon", Beca voiced, and Ivy didn't even look up. "Hopefully this move will be for the better. What do you think Ivy Jane?"

Ivy continued to ignore her and Beca sighed, focusing her full attention on the road.

Falling pregnant at eighteen had never been a part of her plan. In fact, Beca wasn't even sure if she had wanted kids. But the moment she heard that heartbeat at the first ultrasound, she couldn't imagine her life any other way.

Only it hadn't been easy. Beca had a rough first trimester, barely able to haul herself off the bathroom floor. She had morning sickness constantly throughout her pregnancy, and as a result, little Ivy was induced three weeks early. Luke, her first boyfriend and her true love, had been gung-ho about the pregnancy, and had doted over his newborn daughter.

And then they realised there was something not quite right.

She didn't focus like other babies her age did. Her blue eyes didn't follow her parents around. She was staring, but she wasn't seeing. She didn't clap or point or babble to herself. She didn't respond when they said her name. She was late to roll over, to sit up. Her milestones were so far behind other children, and that scared Beca.

When Ivy was six months old, she made a paediatrician appointment. She voiced her concerns to the doctor- she knew she wasn't just worrying about nothing- and he had assured her that all babies developed at different rates. Ivy was just a little behind.

When Ivy was eight months old she came to the apartment they were leasing together and found a note saying that he couldn't do it anymore. Their home was free of his stuff and Beca found herself sitting on the floor of their living room, sobbing her heart out for the first time since she found out she was pregnant.

She ended up moving back in with her mother and stepfather, eight month old Ivy in tow. Katherine and Hal had helped Beca with the baby, Katherine nursing her daughter's broken heart in the same way she had done to her skinned knees years and years earlier.

Beca, after a while, realised her life was better off without Luke, and threw all her focus onto her struggling daughter.

Ivy didn't speak. She didn't say 'mama' and the toys that Beca had bought her sat unattended. She didn't interact with other children, and when she hurt herself she didn't come to her mother for comfort. Beca found herself struggling to bond with the infant, wondering how on earth she was going to get through to the baby.

For the most part, Ivy was a happy baby. She had a cheeky smile that lit up her chubby face, her blue eyes twinkling. Only Beca didn't get to see those blue eyes often, Ivy refusing to make eye contact. She was a happy baby, except for when she wasn't. And then her little body would go rigid and she would scream and cry and kick her feet and Beca didn't know why.

Everyone said that Beca was just worrying, and that it was just a stage. Ivy was going through. Every baby went through that stage, people told her, it was normal.

Beca wasn't just worrying. It wasn't normal.

At twenty one months of age, just shy of her second birthday, the paediatrician confirmed what she as a mother already knew.

Ivy had autism.

And then began appointments. All the appointments that were trying to kill her, Beca had said dramatically to her mother and stepfather, only she wasn't being dramatic. Psychologist appointments, occupational therapy sessions, speech therapy, joining what felt like a never ending list for ABA therapy. Beca had cut gluten out of their diets, and then added gluten back in when she realised that it made no difference to her daughter's personality. She'd cut out strawberries because she had read it, but Ivy didn't even eat strawberries to begin with, so that was completely pointless.

She had done all the research in the world to try and help her daughter, but Ivy had inherited her stubborn personality as well. Beca loved her, with her whole heart, but she would pay all the money in the world to spend five minutes in her head and find out what was going on in her brain.

She wanted to see the world the way that Ivy saw the world, even for a moment.

"When we get to Barden we'll get back into a routine", Beca said to her daughter but Ivy didn't even look up. "We'll get your work sorted out and we'll get to see Grandpa and Grandma every day, and Uncle Michael and Aunt Aubrey. Nanna and Poppy will come to visit us too. It's going to work out for us in Barden".

At first, she thought the idea of moving her child that thrived on routine halfway across the country was a stupid idea. Despite the fact that she'd be shifting their lives to a different state and changing all that Ivy had ever known, she knew that Barden would be better for them.

When Beca made the decision that they'd move to Georgia, it seemed like everything had fallen into place. Her father lived in Barden, only twenty minutes from Atlanta, where Beca was able to get Ivy into speech and occupational therapy. An ABA therapy team was being established for her within Atlanta, something Beca had been waiting for in Maine.

Her mother and stepfather realised that she had to do it, but it didn't mean that they were happy. Not for the fact that Ivy was going to be getting the help she desperately needed, simply because they were so used to having the little girl around.

(Although Beca knew that they wanted their own space. She had been saving desperately, but virtually everything she was earning was going into therapies for her daughter. And despite what her parents said, she paid some rent. She contributed to the grocery bills. But there were only so many three a.m meltdowns that they were expected to put up with, and Beca thought that they'd gone over that number by Ivy's first birthday.)

Her father had stepped up to bat for her. He had offered her the garage turned two bedroom flat with a kitchen and bathroom, rent free, while she was finding her feet in Georgia. Hell, he'd said, the place was hers for as long as she needed.

Beca had protested at first- since her parents' divorce she hadn't had the best relationship with her father. After he married the stepmonster (so maybe Sheila wasn't that bad) Beca started reluctantly spending a part of her summer vacation with him, and either Thanksgiving or Christmas. But since she had fallen pregnant with Ivy, their relationship had grown and he doted over her daughter (although he was not thrilled that his only daughter was pregnant at eighteen. And not thrilled was a definite understatement).

So Beca found herself with a car full of their possessions, making the drive from Portland Maine to Atlanta Georgia, her three year old in tow. The trip in total estimated to be about seventeen hours, and while her mother had offered to accompany her, she knew it was something she had to do alone. It was a long trip to take, but breaking it up over two days had helped. Flying was not an option, she knew that from experience.

The one plane ride that Beca and Ivy had taken together had taken three hours and ten minutes, from Portland to Atlanta, and she had screamed for the first two hours before completely wearing herself out and falling asleep on Beca's chest. She had gotten glares, heard the whispers and even had one lady tell her to control her child.

But there was one man, one father, who gave her hope.

"When was she diagnosed?" the man sitting in front of her had turned around to ask, and Beca had looked at him, visibly shocked.

"Three months ago", she had said quietly, so she didn't disturb the finally sleeping child.

"It gets better", he told her, motioning to the boy beside him. "My son's twelve now. Hang in there. It will get better".

That was all Beca wanted to hear.

"Dad", Beca greeted, jabbing the Bluetooth in her car. "Hi".

"Hi Beca, how's the drive going?" he wanted to know.

"Not too badly now. We'll be there in about two hours".

"And how's Ivy?"

"She's okay. She's asleep now which I'm not too happy about but she barely got any sleep last night, she was so wound up and anxious".

"Poor little thing", he said sympathetically. "I guess you didn't get much sleep either then?"

"I got some", she defended. "And I've had about five cups of coffee. Almost there. That's how we're seeing it".

"Once you're in Barden and have a routine going she'll be better", her father predicted.

"God I hope so".

"Michael and Aubrey are going to come over for dinner tonight", William told her.

"That's it, we don't want or need a welcoming committee", she said, almost sharply. "She's going to go into sensory overload and be completely overstimulated anyway, and while I know a meltdown is inevitable I want to minimise it if possible. Any more than just you guys will be too much, she's not going to handle that".

"I know, Beca", William said gently. "I only want what's best for her. I think I've found someone to work with her, too. Or rather Chloe found someone to work with her".

"That's great, thank you Dad".

"We want to help, as much as we can".

"You've done enough", she objected. "You're letting me live there, rent free. You're helping me pay for therapy".

"You're my daughter, Beca. Ivy's our granddaughter. We're doing what we have to do".

Years earlier, Beca would have rejected any help from her father. She had been young and blamed her parents' marriage falling apart on her, and felt like her father was abandoning her when he packed up and left. But as time went on, she knew it was for the better. And she knew that despite everything she had done (because she had been a horrible, terrible teenager and how had they lived with her?) he still loved her, and was willing to help out when she needed him.

"Thanks Dad", Beca said quietly.

Relief flooded Beca when she finally turned into the driveway to her father's house, killing the engine. Ivy was still sitting quietly in the backseat and Beca opened the driver's side door just as Sheila came flying out of the house.

"Hi Beca sweetheart", Sheila greeted her kindly, as Beca climbed out of the driver's seat of her Prius.

"Hi Sheila", Beca said with a smile, accepting the hug her stepmother offered her. Years earlier when her father had first gotten involved with the woman, Beca had coined the name stepmonster and the name had stuck... right until she got pregnant with Ivy. It wasn't that Sheila was a bad person; it was that she was holding a grudge against her father for leaving her. In her opinion, the only good thing that was to come out of that relationship was her stepbrother Michael, two years her senior. But her opinion changed as time passed, and although Ivy didn't show it the way other children did, Sheila was one of her favourite people.

"How was the drive, honey?"

"Very long". Beca nodded, closing her eyes for a moment.

"And how was Ivy?"

"She was... she was okay. Not great, but she was okay. She had a meltdown last night when we stopped at the hotel- but aside from that she hasn't been too bad".

Sheila winced, because she had seen Ivy's meltdowns and knew that as hard as Beca tried, they weren't easy to control.

"Poor little sweetheart".

"Once we get into a routine we'll be okay. Hopefully".

"It gets better", Sheila reminded her.

Beca was one of the strongest girls she knew. Raising a child alone at such a young age was a challenge- let alone raising a child with special needs. But Beca was doing it, and was determined not to let anything get her down.

"Come on Ivy, let's go and see Grandpa". Beca hoisted the tiny little girl onto her hip and she worked her fingers into her mouth, resting her head on her mother's shoulder.

"Welcome home!" William Mitchell called, as Sheila led the girls into the house. He was sitting in his office but jumped up the moment he heard the front door, coming out to greet them. "Oh my goodness Ivy, look how big you are now!"

"Mama", Ivy complained, wiggling, and Beca set her to her feet.

"She's getting there with her speech", Beca told them. "She's trying. She almost always says my name now".

At three, Beca knew that her daughter should be speaking in full sentences. But Ivy was lucky to have half a dozen words- the first time she had said 'mama' Beca's eyes had welled up and she had hugged the little girl tighter than she knew was comfortable for her.

"She's grown up so much", William said again.

"We'll get there", Beca voiced. "We're going to get there, hey Ivy?"

"Ivy", Beca called, trying to get her daughter's attention. She had curled herself into the soft pink child sized sofa in the corner of the living room, absorbed into her own little world. "Ivy", she tried again, a little louder.

Ivy sat up straight as a board, as if she'd been zapped by a cattle prod.

"Ivy, come over here, time for dinner sweetheart", Sheila said.

"Knock knock!" a loud voice called from the hallway and Ivy snapped her head around, running clumsily towards her mother. Beca caught her gently, lifting her into her lap.

"We're going to have some dinner now", Beca told her. "Come on, you're sitting next to Mummy. And then we're going to go to our own house. We've got our own house now Ivy, isn't that exciting?"

Ivy didn't respond, instead signing 'drink' to her mother. Beca sighed heavily, reaching for the small cup of water and holding it out to her daughter.

"Hey shortie!" Michael said brightly, ruffling his sister's hair.

"Michael", Sheila scolded gently.

"Starting with the short jokes, nice". Beca tried to glare at him, before breaking into a grin. "You miss me?"

"Not a chance". Michael smiled at her, before tapping his niece on the shoulder. "Hey there Ivy Jane! Do you have a hug for Uncle Michael?"

Ivy just looked blankly at him.

"She does not have a hug for Uncle Michael". His shoulders slumped slightly, as he took a seat at the table.

"Where's Aubrey?" William wanted to know.

"She's just wrapping something up with Chloe, she'll be over soon. I said we'd save her some. Fat chance, I smell lasagne".

Sheila made a point of cutting a slice and setting it back in the oven, before letting everyone serve themself.

"Hey Ivy, try a bite of Grandma's lasagne", Beca said temptingly, holding her fork in front of her daughter's face.

Ivy instead reached for a piece of her dinosaur chicken nugget, ignoring her mother.

"How's her eating going, anyway?" William wanted to know.

He knew Beca had been worried about her- Ivy had extreme sensory issues and textures of certain foods would make her gag. She didn't like the texture of any fruit, and potato made her shudder and gag. She wouldn't eat popsicles or ice cream, and her drinks could never have ice cubes in them, for the fear of a meltdown.

"She's getting there". Beca motioned to her plate. "She eats peas and corn. Only now she thinks that we need to have peas and corn with every meal".

"Do you?"

"Of course we do, she can't live off macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets".

"She's made so many huge improvements in the last twelve months Beca, you should be so proud of yourself".

To most people, peas and corn wouldn't be classed a huge improvement. But for Beca, it was a milestone. And if that meant she was left eating peas and corn for the rest of her natural life, then so be it.

"There you go Miss Ivy", Beca said softly, zipping her into her fleecy footed pyjamas. "All ready for bed".

That was all it took. Beca knew it was coming, and she knew she couldn't stop it, but it didn't make it hurt any less.

Ivy opened her mouth and screamed, tears streaming down her just cleaned face. Her body went rigid but her hands kept flapping, stimming her way down the hallway. Beca, catching her into a bear hug, pulled her onto the carpeted floor, beginning the process she knew all too well, with her family watching her.

"Quiet body, quiet hands", Beca chanted softly, rocking back and forth on the floor with her arms around the toddler. Ivy was stiff as a board, writhing around in her mother's arms, her screams like sirens through the house. "Quiet body, quiet hands. Quiet body, quiet hands".

It was something Beca had done all too often. She knew when a meltdown was coming, she could even nip it in the bud if she caught it early enough, but not when she got to the stage that she was at. Screaming was Ivy's way of bringing herself down from the excitement and stimulation of the day, and while Beca knew that, it hurt to watch her daughter scream.

There were so many beautiful things about autism. And then there were so many negatives.

For Beca, she saw the beautiful. She saw Ivy's chubby cheeks and her bright blue eyes that twinkled and her brown hair that was wild and crazy and so so curly. She saw the way her eyes lit up when she praised her, and the way she relaxed completely in the water. But most of all, she saw Ivy's huge heart. Maybe the little girl didn't know how to express her love in the way that others did, but she could.

As Ivy finally started to relax in Beca's arms and her shrieks softened into small cries, Beca put her head back, willing herself not to cry as well.

"Autism is a bitch", she said finally, holding her daughter tight. "A beautiful, fucking bitch".