Epilogue
Warren
One Year Later
The atrium smells faintly of fresh paint and lilies. Banners hang from the rafters, the new lettering bold against the marble: The Evelyn Taylor Center for Family Wellness.
A string quartet plays softly in the corner, though the hum of conversation nearly drowns them out.
I stand near the back, letting the crowd press in around me. Hospital executives, community leaders, and politicians who showed up for the cameras fill the room. None of them matters. The only thing I see is Janie at the podium.
Her dress is simple, navy blue, and her hair tucked back. She doesn’t need anything more. She commands the room with nothing but her voice and her passion.
“When my mother was raising my brother on her own, she didn’t have a place like this,” she says, steady and clear.
“Evelyn Taylor wasn’t a single parent, but she understood what it meant to see need in a city of privilege and to answer it with compassion.
Her vision was to create access where there was none. ”
The room erupts in applause. Janie smiles and looks down at her notes.
“Today, in Evelyn’s honor, we’re expanding that vision. This center will serve every family in Palm Beach who needs support. And for me, that especially means single mothers. Because no parent should have to choose between survival and stability for their child.”
More applause rolls through the atrium. I glance at the front row. Dr. Samuel Taylor dabs at his eyes. His and Evelyn's daughter, Sam, sits beside her husband, Cole. They lean together, proud and aching all at once.
Evelyn’s legacy had been shuttered, erased when the hospital went private. Today, it comes back to life.
Janie doesn’t falter. She smiles at the Taylors, at the crowd, and closes her speech with the kind of conviction that makes me fall in love with her all over again.
“This isn’t charity,” she says. “It’s community. It’s what Evelyn built, what my mother dreamed of, what every parent deserves. Thank you for trusting me to lead it. It is my life's honor to be the director of the Family Wellness Center at CHG.”
The entire room stands, and the clapping continues, sustained, echoing off the high ceiling. Janie steps back, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t have to. We are in sync. We are one.
The ribbon is cut a few minutes later. Cameras flash as the Taylors take their turn with the oversized scissors, then Janie, then Pope Carrigan with his politician’s smile.
The new plaque is unveiled:
The Evelyn Taylor Center for Family Wellness
A CHG Community Outreach Initiative
The gold lettering gleams under the lights. The wing that had been shuttered for almost three years now belongs to families again.
And only I know the truth. Only I know that beneath the polished brass and speeches, the foundation was laid by a quiet trust named MJ Strong.
Margaret and her daughter, Janie. They are two strong women who fought alone when they shouldn’t have had to. Two women who defined quiet strength in ways money never could.
The endowment will never carry my name. It isn’t mine to claim. This place belongs to them. To Janie.
The ceremony dissolves into a reception. Wine glasses clink, clusters of suits and dresses form tight circles of small talk. I stay on the edges, where I belong.
Janie doesn’t. She’s in the center of everything, exactly where she should be.
She’s radiant. Not nervous-radiant, not pretending. Real.
She laughs when a state rep grips her hand like he discovered her. She bends low to thank a petite nurse who’s been here thirty years. She kneels when a little boy tugs her dress hem to ask if the playground is really open today.
Everywhere she turns, people look at her like she’s the anchor of this place.
And she is.
I watch her slip easily from one conversation to the next, her confidence steady, her eyes alive. This is the woman I always knew she could be. She was born to do this.
The Taylors stand near the new plaque, taking photos. Sam wipes at her cheeks as she hugs Janie. Cole says something that makes Janie laugh, and even Dr. Samuel Taylor, stoic as a stone, leans in close, his hand on Janie’s shoulder like she belongs to his family now, too.
She does belong. Not just to them, not just to this hospital, not just to the community. To me. To us.
She catches my eye across the room. It’s fleeting, barely a second, but it hits me like a jolt. Her smile softens. She doesn’t need to say a word. That look tells me everything.
And Christ, I’ve never been more in awe of her.
Beckett barrels into her legs a moment later, nearly toppling her. He’s got frosting smeared across his mouth, evidence of the cupcake table.
She scoops him up without missing a beat, balancing him on her hip while shaking hands with another donor. He rests his cheek on her shoulder, eyelids heavy, trusting her to hold him steady in the middle of all the noise.
He's almost getting too big for her to hold him like this, but he's not ready to give it up. Neither is she.
Margaret appears at her side, Hank close behind. “Why don’t we take him?” she offers gently. “It’s late, and he’s half-asleep on his feet.”
Janie hesitates, then kisses Beckett’s hair. “Alright, buddy. Go with Mimi and Hank. Daddy and I will be home soon.”
The title still catches in my chest.
We told him together about a month after his holiday concert, sitting shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen table. His school project was spread out between us, paper trees dusted in glitter.
That night is still so vivid in my memory, his naming of the trees: “mommy tree, daddy tree, baby tree.”
Janie spoke first, steady as ever. She told him that all families don’t look the same. He told her he wanted a daddy tree. Then, he looked down and studied the trees before looking up at me.
For a breath, it was like the whole world tilted on that small moment in time. And in the sweetest, most innocent tone, he asked if I could be his dad.
The air left my lungs. I reached for him, holding tight, and told him the truth, that nothing would make me happier.
It was seamless for him, natural in a way that left me undone. For Beckett, it was just naming what he already felt. For me, it was everything, like something broken deep inside had been set right at last.
I’m constantly in awe of him, the way he absorbs the world with such trust. He filled a space in me I hadn’t known was hollow.
Beckett barely stirs when Hank lifts him from her arms, his head lolling against his grandfather’s shoulder. Margaret squeezes Janie’s hand before they disappear into the crowd, Beckett safe between them.
The hum of the room hardens without him.
My gaze drops, just for a moment, to the faintest curve beneath the fabric of her dress. No one else would notice. But I do.
We only found out earlier this week and haven’t told a soul yet. Janie wanted to get through the ribbon-cutting ceremony.
When I reach her side, she leans in close, her voice a whisper meant only for me. “I’m so glad baby number two gets to be here for this. Our little secret, our family of four.”
The word secret doesn’t hurt anymore because it's ours. Once, it nearly broke us. Now it binds us.
I press my hand over the smallest swell of her stomach, hidden from the world but not from me. She belongs here, leading, shining, carrying life in more ways than one. This stage, this spotlight, this respect is hers.
She thinks she fought her way here alone, and in the ways that matter, she did. That’s why I’ll never tell her about MJ Strong. She doesn’t need to know what I put into the foundation. All she needs is the certainty that it’s hers.
When the reception finally winds down and the last handshakes are made, we both look at each other and exhale. Both of our shoulders sag with the release of it all.
“You did it, baby,” I murmur, brushing my knuckles down her arm. “You’re the director of a center dedicated to helping people. It’s real, and I’m so damn proud of you.”
Her lips curve, soft and a little wobbly. “I couldn’t have done it without you by my side. We’re a team. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I say, voice rough. “With all my heart.”
She tips her head toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s walk the new loop around campus. Two miles, brick-lined. As you're well aware, this was one of my biggest non-negotiables. A quiet place for families to unwind together.”
I lace my fingers through hers, the warmth of her palm sliding against mine, and we step outside.
The doors close behind us, muting the chatter and clinking glasses.
The night air is cooler, threaded with the scent of cut grass and the faint salt of the ocean.
Crickets hum in the distance, their rhythm steady against the hush of traffic drifting from the bridge.
Janie lets go of my hand only to slip her arm through mine, her head resting lightly on my shoulder. Her perfume lingers, warm and familiar, mixed with the faint sweetness of the tea olive trees bordering the path.
For a long stretch, we don’t speak. There's only the sound of our footsteps scuffing against the bricks, the night settling around us, the world quieter with each step we take.
She breaks the silence first. Her voice is low, almost shy. “We should probably start talking about dates. With our little bean’s arrival now imminent.”
I glance down at her, caught off guard. “Dates?”
“For the wedding.” Her smile flickers, cautious, like she’s testing how the words sound out loud. I’ve asked her to marry me no less than ten times over the last year. Every time, she told me we needed more time.
Something twists in my chest. Hearing it from her lips makes it real in a way nothing else has. I stop walking, turn enough that she has to face me. "Are you saying you'll marry me, Janie Harrelson?"
"I think I'm ready. If you'll still have me."
"Yes! Whenever you want,” I say. “Wherever you want. I'd do it tomorrow if you're ready. Sky’s the limit.”