Epilogue
Joy
Three Years Later…
The backyard hums with the low buzz of tiny wings and the laughter of my children.
“Keep your balance, baby bug!” I call, shielding my eyes against the sun as Ivy wobbles mid-air, her soft amber wings flapping furiously. Beside her, her brother, Leo, steadies himself on his tiptoes, antennae twitching like little divining rods.
“I’m higher than Ivy!” he crows, hovering just a few feet off the ground.
“Not for long!” Ivy shoots back, determined, and pushes harder. She manages to rise another few inches before landing in the grass with a giggle that makes me laugh.
Their wings are the same russet-gold as mine, only dusted with pale cream along the edges. When the sunlight hits them, they shimmer like spun sugar. Sometimes I still can’t believe they’re real—these little half-human miracles we somehow created.
I rest a hand on the gentle swell of my belly. Baby number three shifts inside me, reminding me that our chaos is only just beginning.
“You two are doing amazing,” I tell them. “But remember—small flaps, not wild flaps. You’re not trying to fight the air, you’re trying to dance with it.”
Leo scrunches his face. “Dancing’s for girls.”
I raise a brow. “Tell that to your father when he gets home. He dances every time he makes dinner.”
That earns twin giggles.
And right on cue, I hear the familiar crunch of gravel in the driveway. The kids’ wings flutter excitedly as Malcolm’s truck door slams.
“Daddy!” Ivy squeals, taking off in a wild, lopsided flight. Leo sprints behind her, arms outstretched.
Malcolm barely has time to drop his work bag before they collide with him—one from the air, one from the ground. He catches both effortlessly, laughing. He looks the same and yet different; his hair’s a little longer, his jaw scruffier, but that grin—God, that grin—still wrecks me.
“Hey, buglets,” he says, peppering kisses on their cheeks. Then his gaze finds me. “And hey, mama moth.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. “You know I hate that nickname.”
He saunters over, kids still clinging to him, and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You secretly love it.”
“I tolerate it,” I counter, though my wings twitch in pleasure.
He glances down at my belly, resting a big, callused hand there. “How’s my littlest flyer doing?”
“Active,” I say, smiling softly. “If this one has wings anything like Ivy’s, we’re doomed.”
He grins. “Good. Means they’ll fit right in.”
Behind us, the twins run toward the oak tree again, shrieking and flapping, and I lean into Malcolm’s chest. His arm wraps around me, solid and warm.
For a moment, the world feels utterly still—the hum of wings, the laughter of children, the rustle of leaves. All the fear and uncertainty from those early days feels like another lifetime.
Malcolm kisses the top of my head. “You know,” he murmurs, “if anyone had told me a few years ago I’d come home to a wife with wings and three moth-kids, I’d have called them crazy.”
“And now?” I ask.
He chuckles against my hair. “Now, I can’t imagine my life in any other way. Wingless children are sad.”
That makes me laugh, but I punch him playfully in the gut. “Be nice. There are plenty of wingless children in Screaming Woods.”
“I know. They’re just not as cute as my kids.”
There are nights, after the kids are asleep and the house is quiet except for the faint rustle of wings in the nursery, when I still can’t believe this is my life.
Three years ago, I hid from the man I loved because I was afraid he’d see me as something monstrous. Now that same man builds little harnesses so our children can practice flying safely, and kisses the tops of our antennae like they’re the most natural things in the world.
The fear, the shame, the loneliness—all of it feels like a different lifetime. Malcolm never let me stay in the dark; he kept showing up, over and over, until I finally believed that love could survive transformation.
Sometimes, when the moon is bright, we take the kids outside and fly together—clumsy and laughing and free.
Malcolm can’t leave the ground, but he swears watching us lift into the air is the closest thing to heaven he’s ever seen.
And maybe that’s what we are now—our own kind of heaven. Messy, magical, imperfect, but wholly ours.
I used to think I’d lost everything when my life changed. Turns out, that was just the beginning.
Because this? This is joy. And I’m so grateful he found me.
***
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