Epilogue
Scott
One year later, there are two coffee mugs sitting in the sink, one of Harrison’s hoodies draped over the couch, and fresh basil dying slowly in the kitchen window because neither of us remembers to water it consistently.
Outside, late summer rain taps softly against the windows while I stand barefoot in the kitchen finishing dinner.
The entire cottage smells like garlic and fresh bread, and somewhere behind me, Harrison is pretending to help while actually stealing pieces of chicken straight from the pan every time he thinks I’m not paying attention.
“You know,” I say without turning around, “normal people usually wait until dinner is actually plated before they start eating it.”
“I’m quality testing.”
“You’ve quality tested half the meal.”
“That’s called dedication.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
Then his arms slide around my waist. He kisses the side of my neck softly before resting his chin against my shoulder.
“You’re smiling,” he murmurs.
“I’m literally always smiling around you now. It’s getting embarrassing.”
“I know. I’m very charming.”
I roll my eyes, but my hand automatically settles over his, where they rest against my stomach.
The sound of tires crunching against gravel outside pulls me from the thought.
Harrison lifts his head slightly. “Your mom’s early.”
“Probably because she thinks we’ll starve without supervision.”
“She’s not entirely wrong.”
I elbow him lightly, earning a laugh against my shoulder. Headlights move across the kitchen windows. I glance up and freeze because there are two people in the car. My heart stumbles so hard it physically hurts.
For a second, neither of us says anything. We watch as the driver’s side door opens first. My mother steps out, then my father follows her.
I genuinely think I stop breathing.
Beside me, Harrison goes very still.
“Scott,” he says quietly.
But I’m already moving.
I barely remember crossing the cottage before I’m opening the front door, the rain-cooled air hitting my skin as I step onto the porch.
My father looks up at me from the bottom of the steps. And suddenly I’m twenty years old again, standing in that kitchen waiting for my life to fall apart.
Except this time, it doesn’t.
Nobody says anything at first.
Rain taps softly against the trees surrounding the lake while my father stares at me like he’s trying to figure out how we lost so much time between us.
He looks older than I remember.
“You came,” I hear myself say.
My father swallows hard before nodding once. “Your mother said dinner was at six.”
The words are awkward enough that under any other circumstance, they probably would’ve been funny.
But I know what he’s really saying.
I came.
Behind me, the screen door opens, and Harrison steps onto the porch. He moves close enough that I can feel him at my back without him touching me.
My father’s eyes flick toward him briefly.
There’s still uncertainty there. Discomfort too. But the anger is gone. In its place is a man standing in front of something he still doesn’t fully understand, trying anyway because he loves his son more than his own pride.
My mother reaches for my father’s arm gently. “Frank.”
He exhales quietly before looking back at me. “You look happy here,” he says after a moment, his voice rough around the edges.
Emotion climbs so suddenly into my throat I almost can’t breathe around it.
Because this is his version of an apology.
Not polished. Not graceful. But real.
“I am,” I say honestly.
Silence settles between us again, but it no longer feels sharp enough to cut.
My father glances past me toward the warm light spilling from the cottage windows before muttering, “You gonna leave us standing out here all night?”
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it. And just like that, some of the tension cracks enough to let air back into the room.
“Oh, the rain,” I say quickly, stepping aside. “Come inside.”
Dinner is awkward in places and painfully quiet in others, but it’s real in a way that matters more than perfection ever could.
My father asks Harrison about the grocery store. About the fishing in the lake. About whether the roof still leaked every time it rained.
Not constantly. Not effortlessly.
But he asks.
And Harrison, being Harrison, answers every question with the same calm steadiness he always does, never pushing too hard, never making my father feel embarrassed for trying.
At one point during dessert, I catch my father watching us from across the table while Harrison reaches over to steal a bite from my plate.
Not judging.
Just watching.
Learning.
Later, after my mother insists on helping Harrison with dishes despite his protests, I step outside onto the porch for a minute alone.
A few moments later, the screen door opens softly behind me.
This time, it is my father.
For a while, we just stand there side by side, looking out over the lake. The rain has stopped now, and the water is dark. Crickets hum somewhere deep in the trees.
My father clears his throat, like he’s been working up to speaking for the last five minutes. “Your mother says you fixed up most of the place yourselves.”
I glance back toward the cottage. “Mostly Harrison,” I admit. “I nearly put a hole through the kitchen wall trying to hang shelves.”
A quiet sound that’s almost a laugh leaves him. “Sounds about right.”
The familiar teasing catches me off guard more than anything else tonight.
Silence settles again after that, easier this time.
Then my father rubs a hand across the back of his neck before speaking more quietly. “I know I didn’t handle things right.”
I look down at the porch boards for a second, my chest tightening at the words even after all this time.
He exhales slowly.
“Truth is, I spent so much time thinking about what I thought your life was supposed to look like that I stopped paying attention to the life you were actually trying to build.”
His voice roughens slightly near the end. “But I’m trying, Scott.”
The words hit harder than I expected them to because I know he means them.
Not perfectly.
Not all at once.
But honestly.
I look over at him then, at the man I spent years terrified of disappointing, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel ashamed standing in front of him exactly as I am.
“I know,” I say quietly.
My father nods once, emotion moving briefly across his face before he looks back toward the lake.
Then, after another minute, he says, “Your husband seems like a good man.”
Husband.
The word still catches me off guard sometimes.
A slow smile pulls at my mouth as I glance back toward the cottage windows, where Harrison is laughing quietly at something my mother said while drying dishes beside her.
“He is,” I say softly.
My father follows my gaze, silent for a long moment.
And standing there beside him beneath the quiet night sky, I realize healing doesn’t always arrive in grand gestures or perfectly chosen words.
Sometimes it arrives slowly.
Awkwardly.
Sometimes it shows up unexpectedly for dinner and stands beside you on a porch trying to learn how to love you better than it did before.
And standing there between the family I came from and the life I built for myself, I realized maybe the kind of love willing to keep trying, even after getting things wrong, mattered more than perfection ever could.
Because home was never a place untouched by hurt.
Home is this.
Home is us.
Thank you for reading!