Epilogue
Three years later
Phoebe stands in front of her closet, frowning in concentration. She pulls a red-striped sundress off a hanger, then turns to me, holding it up. “Do girls in New York wear Old Navy?”
“There isn’t one kind of girl in New York,” I say. “If you love it, pack it.”
She nods and passes it to me. I fold it on my lap, then tuck it into the open suitcase at my feet.
“Just remember you’ll be wearing a uniform to school—so you won’t need as many clothes,” I say. “And you’ll still have your room here. We can grab more things on visits.”
She sighs, then tugs two pairs of jeans from a stack in the closet. “These are too short, anyway,” she says, tossing them to the floor.
Mick appears in the doorway, a box under one arm. “You girls making any progress?”
“Yes,” Phoebe and I say in unison.
“Okay,” he says, his eyebrows lifting as he surveys the bags lined up by the door. “The truck’s filling up fast. Just so you know.”
“We’ll cut it down a bit,” I say.
He nods, then turns to go, whistling as he walks back down the hall.
I glance around the room—posters taped to the walls, paperback novels lining her shelves, an easy chair covered with stuffed animals—and think back to the day, a little over two years ago, when we sold Joan’s house and Phoebe and I moved in with Mick.
By then, we were a couple—tentatively, secretly—Phoebe’s therapist advising us to wait until our relationship “felt solid” before we told her about us.
“It’s already solid,” Mick said later, his blue eyes holding mine.
He was right, but my gut told me to wait a bit longer. So the two of us kept up the act, sleeping in separate bedrooms and stealing time together once Phoebe left for school. As hard as it sometimes was, the secrecy made everything feel a little giddy—like we were back in high school.
Then, one Saturday night while the three of us watched a movie, Mick slipped up, putting his hand on my leg. I quickly pushed it away, but Phoebe caught it immediately.
“Busted!” she said, laughing. “You weren’t fooling anyone anyway.”
My parents and friends were just as happy when we shared our news. Like Phoebe, they weren’t surprised. What did catch them off guard was the next part: We were moving to New York after Phoebe finished the school year.
“Mick’s actually leaving Wisconsin?” my mom asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s up for an adventure. And the orchard’s in good hands—he’s made some terrific hires.”
“What will he do in the city?” my dad asked.
“He’s figuring it out,” I said, thinking of his grad school applications and the second act awaiting him.
Phoebe holds up a pair of ballet flats, pulling me back to the present. “What about these?”
“Very versatile. I’d take them,” I say before standing and heading for the door. “Keep plugging away. I’ll be back in a few.”
“Kk,” she says, then calls out to her speaker: “Alexa, play ‘Bejeweled.’ ”
—
I find Mick in the kitchen, tossing perishables into the trash can. He glances up, then rounds the island toward me.
“She’s so excited,” I say.
“So am I,” he says, kissing my forehead and pulling me into his arms.
I lean against his chest, flooded with gratitude—for him, for Phoebe, for the life we are building together.
—
We’ve come a long way since that first six-month court order. After it expired, the three of us went back to court, and a judge granted Mick and me joint custody of Phoebe.
By then, a paternity test had confirmed that Mick wasn’t Phoebe’s biological father.
Mostly, I felt relieved that we wouldn’t have to sit her down and reframe her whole story, explaining her mother and Mick’s mistake and the betrayal of keeping that truth buried for so long.
There was a pang, too, for what a different result might have given her—a biological father she already loves.
But deep down, I knew the test meant nothing.
It only confirmed what we already knew—on paper and off, we were already a family.
As Mick turns back to cleaning out the fridge, my gaze falls on a handwritten note from Sophie Cohen, saying she’s been cancer-free for a year—and she’s expecting a baby in December.
I’ve already written back to congratulate her. I also shared that she was one of the women who inspired me to freeze my own eggs. Lately, Mick and I have been talking about trying, and while we don’t know what the future holds, it feels good to have that safety net.
No one has inspired me as much as Phoebe.
Caring for her these past few years hasn’t always been easy—her adolescent stubbornness has definitely shown up.
Yet in my entire life, nothing has brought me more joy.
She has made me kinder and stronger all at once—a version of myself I didn’t know was possible—and given my life deeper meaning than I ever could have imagined.
Sometimes, when she laughs a certain way or sweeps her curls off her face, I catch a flash of Erin. Every time, it feels like a small miracle—proof that love doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It just finds new ways to live on.
The following morning, after breakfast with my parents, we stop by Maeve’s coffee shop. When we walk in, she’s behind the counter, taking an order. She glances our way, does a double take, then grins.
When we get to the front of the line, she says, “You’re late.”
“By two minutes!” Mick laughs.
“That’s still late.” Maeve smirks. “What can I get you?”
We order two coffees and a smoothie. As she rings us up, her colleague steps forward and says, “I’ll take it from here, Maeve. You can take your break now.”
“Okay. Thank you,” she says, slipping out from behind the counter.
“So New York is a very big city,” Maeve says after we’re all seated at a table. She gives Phoebe an earnest look. “You need to be careful.”
Phoebe nods. “I will.”
We talk for a few minutes until Mick’s name is called.
“I got it!” Maeve says, hurrying to the counter.
Mick watches her. I reach across the table for his hand and give it a squeeze.
A beat later, Maeve returns with our drinks balanced in a cardboard tray. She sets it on the table and says, “Break’s over. Time to get back to work!”
Mick stands and gives her a long hug. “I’m proud of you, Maevie,” he whispers.
“I’m proud of you, Mickey,” she says, pulling back. “Come back soon!”
“We will,” Mick says, blinking back tears.
We get back in the truck with our drinks and start our long drive east. At the edge of town, we pass the Waters. Joan is no longer with us, but we still talk about her often.
Mick drives with one arm slung over the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, while Phoebe sits in the back with the dogs, earbuds in, listening to music and scrolling through Instagram.
Mick and I chat as I keep my eyes on the road, watching the highway signs change, each one bringing us a little closer to our new life.
Every now and then, I glance at him, taking in the details—the way his jaw flexes when he concentrates, the suntan edging his cheekbones—and I’m struck by how right this all feels.
We drive all day and into the evening, finally stopping for the night at a Comfort Inn near Rochester. After sharing a pepperoni pizza, we crawl under the covers, Phoebe in one bed, Mick and I in the other.
Long after they’ve both fallen asleep, I’m still awake, replaying the last few years—some things decided by judges and juries, the rest by quieter choices in kitchens and bedrooms and orchards.
I let the past recede and turn to the chapter we’re starting in the two-bedroom Upper East Side apartment we closed on just a few weeks ago.
Mick and I chose it mostly for its proximity to the school that Dean, of all people, helped Phoebe get into.
I wouldn’t call us friends, but we’ve kept in touch, and it feels nice not to have written each other off.
Sometimes life’s circles don’t close neatly—they overlap, forming something unexpected but whole.
When I finally drift off to sleep, it’s with the comforting weight of Mick’s hand resting against mine.
—
The next day, we visit Niagara Falls.
Mist rises off the gorge, dampening our faces as we grip the railing. Phoebe leans against it, and Mick pulls her back, wrapping his arm around her shoulders before snapping a selfie of our little family.
My mind flashes back to the last time Mick and I were here—nearly fifteen years ago—how I clung to him, terrified of losing him, the ground beneath me always threatening to give way.
But now, with Phoebe sandwiched between us and water crashing in my ears, I feel anchored, shaped by loss and longing, yet somehow whole.
Finally, I know who I am: a girl from small-town Wisconsin, a New Yorker by choice, Phoebe’s protector, Mick’s person—forever—whether or not we ever marry or have a baby.
A faint rainbow arcs through the mist. Phoebe points at it, her laughter spilling into the roar.
I let it wash through me like a vow—a reminder that home isn’t a pin on a map.
It’s love. It’s belonging.
And at last, I’ve found both.