Epilogue
NIGHT FEEDS WERE the best.
Rachel loved nothing more than to sit in semi-darkness and just relish the quiet time with their little girl.
Araminta Aoife Hadley.
Minty.
‘Minty?’ her dad had barked when he’d come to visit them at the hospital. ‘Oh, I’ve lived too long—I really have. First there’s Pixie and now Minty. I’ll be laughed out of the pub!’
‘Oh, give it a rest, Dave,’ Moira had said, and she and Rachel had shared a smile.
And then Rachel had teared up as she’d watched her dad holding little Minty, telling her just how very precious and loved she was.
Dominic’s parents had visited too, and agreed she was beautiful indeed, and Dominic had had to borrow Rachel’s superpower to push down his resentment as he’d accepted their congratulations and smiles.
Minty was now six weeks old, and while Rachel’s pregnancy had been terrifying, she and Dominic had faced it together this time, sharing their hopes and fears and taking it in turns to be strong.
She had silky dark hair, a sweet rosebud mouth, fat cheeks and long fingers, and Rachel took her time to trace them all as she fed her. Her feet poked out from the little sleep suit and Rachel could not resist counting her tiny toes.
She was rather certain that Minty smiled.
When she’d finished feeding, instead of heading straight up the stairs, Rachel stood and cuddled her for a moment, rocking her as she held her, enjoying the sweet, milky baby scent and the softness of her hair as she gently paced the room before coming to stand at the fireplace.
They had, as both she and Dominic as well as all their visitors agreed, the best mantelpiece in the whole world.
At one end there was a photo of them on the steps at Sheffield Town Hall, both smiling—Dominic probably in terror and Rachel trying to contain her love.
At the other end there they stood again, thirteen years older and a whole lot surer of their mutual love.
And between them there were photos of Minty, and of Jordan and Heather’s newest son, Andrew, who was Rachel and Dominic’s godchild.
Richard’s wife, Freya, was expecting again, so there might be another photo to add soon.
And there was Pixie, and her other nieces and nephews too. And there, nestled within the other photos, next to the beautiful portrait of her mother, the much-mourned Aoife Walker, with her gorgeous red hair and smiling eyes, was Christopher, in the arms of his parents.
They were both a part of their journey and a part of their family, and would be for evermore.
‘If you throw me out I’ll come back,’ Dominic said, and his delightfully tricky wife smiled as she realised he had come downstairs to join her. ‘And then we can get another wedding photo to put in the middle—because I’m just going to keep on marrying you.’
‘And I’ll just keep on saying I do.’
Rachel smiled, and when he held out his arms she handed him little Minty.
They were, they both knew, simply meant to be.
* * * * *