Epilogue
Two Years Later
No one warns you that the moment you become a dad, the world rearranges itself without asking permission.
Riley was on the changing mat, legs pumping like he thought this was a full-contact sport, his red face screwed up in protest. Maddison lay beside him on the rug, making soft, indignant noises like she’d already decided the world was deeply inconvenient.
Three weeks old, both of them, and already running the house.
“Alright, little dude,” I muttered, peeling back the diaper and instantly regretting my confidence. “Okay, no—hell no, that’s aggressive.”
He gurgled, clearly pleased with his efforts.
From the corner of my eye, Maddison was already shuffling her way off the mat I’d put her on.
“Absolutely not,” I groaned, carefully hauling her back by the ankles while keeping Riley from rolling clean off the mat.
“You two are conspiring against me. I can feel it.” They both stared at me. Completely unimpressed.
“Your mom’s upstairs getting the first proper nap she’s had in weeks,” I whispered, like they might give a shit. “So we’re keeping it down, yeah?”
The next thing I heard was the sound of what can only be explained as an eruption coming from Maddie’s direction. I dropped my head back with a groan. “Cool. Awesome. Totally crushing the dad thing over here.”
So yeah, I was exhausted, covered in spit-up and God knows what else, but looking down at the two of them—my kids, two tiny babies that were now somehow mine—my heart almost split in two.
Getting here hadn’t been easy. There were months that nearly broke us, nights I held Orla while she cried over another negative test, moments I wondered if wanting this was asking too much of the universe.
Then, somehow, with a lot of help it worked. Of course it did. Because Orla never does anything by halves.
After a year of a lot of trying the old-fashioned way, we gave in and finally admitted defeat. Both of us had test after test but nothing ever explained why it wasn’t happening for us. The clinical method was the only choice left.
And because she’s Orla fucking Reed, she smashed it first time. Okay, smashed it was an understatement, we ended up with fucking twins.
I could still see that day so clearly—the sonographer turning the screen, pointing at two tiny shapes. Baby number one…and baby number two.
“Wait. Two?” I’d blurted. “As in—two babies?”
Orla just stared at the screen, her eyes wide and her hand crushing mine. Then she started laughing through tears that broke me open on the spot.
“Twins,” she whispered.
I kept kissing the back of her hand over and over again until we were done. The both of us left the doctors office completely giddy and overwhelmed.
And now here they were. Maddie squeaking like she was telling me off, Riley trying to grab a fistful of my hair and yanking like he was trying to test my pain threshold.
“Yeah,” I murmured, scooping them both up against my chest, careful and clumsy at the same time. “Guess the joke’s on me, huh? Double everything. Double the trouble.” I pressed my face into their soft heads, breathing them in until my throat felt tight.
The rest of it had fallen into place in ways I never expected.
Since Jordan retired from injury last year, I’d climbed to world number one.
I was still playing, still grinding, but it was different now.
Orla was still with me on the road. Still my physio, only mine now and when I looked across at her in recent matches, sitting in the stands, I didn’t see the girl who tried to resist me.
I saw my wife. The woman who was carrying my children.
Sarah and Eddie practically lived here half the week, helping us survive. Sarah had that magic mom touch—she could settle both babies faster than I could change a diaper—and Eddie made himself useful with midnight bottle runs and fixing shit around the house I didn’t even know was broken.
And Mom…she was sober. Still sober. Nearly two years now.
She’d come by, sit on the floor with the twins, eyes shining like she couldn’t quite believe she got to be here for this.
She wasn’t the picture-book grandma, not even close, but she was trying.
She was still with Michael, who made her laugh and kept her steady.
I didn’t trust him completely yet, but she looked better.
Stronger. And for the first time in my entire life, I believed she might actually stay that way.
“You two have no idea,” I whispered to my babies. “You’ve made me into the luckiest bastard alive.”
A creak on the stairs made me glance up.
Orla appeared in the doorway, hair messy from sleep, eyes soft and warm as she took in the sight of me on the nursery floor, the twins sprawled across me.
Out of the two, Riley looked the most like Orla.
He had the same adorable frown and a look that was constantly judging me.
He was only truly ever content in his mama's arms. Maybe he was a lot like me after all. Maddie, though, was a daddy’s girl through and through, right down to the hint of green I could see forming in her eyes.
She leaned against the frame, lips curving. “I leave you alone for one nap and you turn into Superdad?”
I grinned at her, heart damn near bursting out of my chest. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
She came over and sat beside me, curling into my shoulder, her head resting there in her rightful place. We watched them silently together and for the first time in my life I wasn’t waiting for the ground to fall away beneath my feet.
People always talk of fairytale endings. But this was better than that. It was real life. And it was mine.