Epilogue
THREE YEARS LATER
I stretch my arms above my head, fingers cracking like bubble wrap, hips groaning in protest, neck popping just loud enough to remind me I’m not twenty-five anymore. Not that I’d go back. Not for a single second. But God, this body has stories to tell.
The soft, unmistakable sound of giggling skitters through the hallway like mischief on tiptoes. I close my eyes just as the door creaks open and…
“ Surprise! ”
A tiny, warm body launches itself onto the bed, full throttle, knees and elbows and joy. “ Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy! ” my five-year-old bellows directly into my ear, all lungs and excitement and maple syrup breath.
I pretend to be shocked, hands to chest, dramatic gasp.
Even though I’ve heard them plotting this for the last two days.
Even though I saw the glitter glue massacre that was the “secret card project” in the kitchen.
Even though my son inherited Caden’s lack of volume control and told me three separate times yesterday that he “wasn’t planning anything. ”
Still. My heart squeezes, tight and soft all at once.
Then Caden appears in the doorway, my husband, still disgustingly hot in the cruel, effortless way only former playboys-turned-devoted-girl-dads can be. He’s got bed hair and a tray in his hands, piled with what I’m guessing are pancakes and a cup of coffee that smells like actual salvation.
Tucked against his chest is one of our six-month-old daughters, her sleepy little face smooched into his shoulder, legs in ruffled bloomers kicking lazily. And right behind him, just when I think I’ve taken in all the sweetness this moment can possibly hold, Keira steps into view.
She’s holding our other six-month-old.
Imagine our surprise when the IVF worked, not just on the first try, but gave us two beautiful babies.
Twins. Actual twins. I was terrified. And then we just…
figured it out. Like we always do. With late-night feedings and name debates and onesies that never stay buttoned.
With panic and patience and love so fierce it makes my chest ache.
Keira smiles at me, her arms wrapped around my daughter like she was born to hold her. “She wouldn’t stop crying until I picked her up,” she says, quietly proud. “She likes me better.”
I laugh. I always laugh when Keira’s with them. I think I’ll never get over the strange, beautiful ache of seeing her in our home, with my children, when eight years ago I was pretty sure I’d never hear from her again.
They all clamber in; my wild, chaotic family, and I get kissed approximately seven hundred times in various places: cheek, forehead, nose, collarbone.
My son climbs over my legs like a Labrador and drops the glitter-encrusted card in my lap with the kind of pride only toddlers and drunk artists possess.
Keira hands me a small box. Inside is a delicate bracelet, rose gold, with four tiny charms, two girls, one boy, and a heart.
“You’re the mom I needed,” she says, eyes glassy but steady. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
God. She wrecks me.
I reach for her hand, squeezing it tight. There’s so much I want to say, but I don’t need to. She sees it in my face. We’ve learned to read each other in silence, our love language shaped in heartbreak and stitched back together in therapy and time and mercy.
Her journey wasn’t easy. Therapy chipped away at the iceberg until her core was exposed; raw, scared, furious. There were days she wanted to give up, nights she texted me “I can’t do this” with the period like a punch to the chest. But she didn’t quit.
She fought .
Fought herself. Fought the shame. Fought the version of her that kept looking in the mirror and only seeing what she had done, not who she was becoming.
And now, eight years later, she’s Dr. Keira Scott. Not the kind of doctor our parents pushed on her. Not the surgeon they wanted, or the academic they paraded in brochures. No, her kind. The one she chose . A child psychologist. A damn brilliant one.
And I’ve never been prouder .
Once I’ve had my delicious, slightly-too-sweet breakfast, complete with a pancake bite dramatically hand-fed to me by Rhett, my little golden tornado of a son, Keira claps her hands and says, “Alright, the dogs are about two seconds from tearing the living room apart. Let’s take them to the backyard. ”
Rhett cheers and launches off the bed, yelling something about throwing sticks and being the fastest boy in the world.
Our two dogs, Roxy and Ruby, are barking downstairs in perfect chaotic stereo. Ruby, despite being three times the size of her mother, still turns into a sheepish puppy at one warning growl from Roxy, our original girl, our bossy queen, the canine embodiment of me before coffee.
Keira gathers up Cala and Lily, our two sleepy baby girls, one in each arm like some magical, maternal goddess-warrior. Rhett is already at the door, bouncing like a pinball, calling, “Come on, Keewa! I’m gonna race Ruby!”
Caden and I exchange a look; how did we get so lucky?
When they’re gone, the room shifts, quieter, slower, softer.
Caden sets the breakfast tray aside and stretches out beside me, pulling me close until I’m nestled against his chest, his fingers tracing slow circles on my hip.
We don’t speak at first. There’s no need. His heartbeat against my cheek says everything .
Finally, he murmurs, “You know, sometimes I still can’t believe you said yes.”
I smile. “To what? The job, the baby, or the insanely hot boss I was definitely not supposed to fall for?”
He chuckles, low and lazy, his lips brushing my forehead. “All of it. But mostly to forever.”
I tilt my head back to look at him, this man who saw every broken piece of me and never flinched. “Forever was the easiest yes of my life.”
He kisses me then, soft and deep and slow, like he’s got all the time in the world.
That evening, our house smells like cinnamon, coffee, and too many kids eating too much sugar. It's chaos. Glorious, backyard, sticky-fingered, dog-chasing chaos.
We’re hosting a Mother’s Day brunch at night , because none of us sleep properly anyway, and because “brunch” just sounds more put-together than “everyone shows up in stretchy pants and drinks wine while children scream into the void.”
The mothers; Lorna, Hannah, and me, are sprawled across the sectional like queens of a very loud, very snack-based kingdom. There’s a half-eaten fruit tart on the coffee table and a suspiciously sticky sippy cup wedged under my thigh, but we don’t care. This is sacred space. The men can deal.
Josh, Lorna’s husband, has been training Caden and Eli for years in the ancient art of Dad-ing. He’s a legend in cargo shorts. Knows how to swaddle a baby, change a diaper with one hand, and cut grapes with surgical precision.
He also takes immediate, personal offense whenever anyone dares to say, “Oh, are you babysitting the kids today?”
“They’re my goddamn kids,” he’ll bark, eyes flashing like some suburban dad gladiator. “How the hell can I be babysitting if they came out of my wife ?”
Icon.
Out in the yard, he’s currently refereeing a high-stakes game of tag while Caden and Eli are running around like over-caffeinated golden retrievers, being tackled by children with wild abandon.
Roxy and Ruby are chasing bubbles. There’s a sprinkler going even though no one planned for water play. Everyone is drenched. I love it here.
Caden catches my eye through the patio doors and winks. My heart flips the same way it did when I walked down the aisle to marry him.
My first wedding had been in a quickie chapel followed by a reception in hungover land.
My wedding to Caden, was the complete opposite.
We had a private ceremony in his parent’s villa in Italy.
There was some drama, but at the end I got to marry my best-friend, in front of the most important people in my life.
Caden’s mom got an ear infection in Capri and couldn’t join us this year, so she decided to sip something sparkling and enjoy her Mother’s Day with the man who made her a mother.
She’s class in a linen dress, told a guilt-ridden Caden not to worry, that she has two other sons who can’t keep a woman longer than a weekend, and they can visit her for once.
It’s funny. The lottery I lost with my own mother, I somehow won with my mother-in-law. No wonder Caden is so emotionally literate. He was raised by a woman who knows how to mother.
As for mine...
Last Keira and I heard, she found out about Dad’s other family with his secretary and the sons he actually wanted.
She’s enjoying life with her half of the estate, apparently happier than ever, with zero interest in the daughters she had.
But I don’t care. Not anymore. I have a career, and a family I chose, which is messy, loud, and real. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
I’ve got everything I need, and for the first time in forever, I couldn’t be happier .
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for choosing to read my debut book. As a first-time author, this journey has been both exciting and humbling. Every page you’ve turned and every moment you’ve spent in this story means the world to me.
Writing this book was a labour of love, and sharing it with readers like you is a dream come true.
If you enjoyed it, or even if you have constructive feedback, I would deeply appreciate it if you could take a moment to rate and review it.
Your thoughts not only help me grow as a writer but also help other readers discover this story.
Thank you again for your support. I can’t wait to bring you more stories in the future!
With gratitude,
TB Viole t
Thank You for Reading!
I hope you enjoyed the book.