Epilogue Bronte
Epilogue
Bronte
One year later . . .
I don’t remember asking for any of this.
Not the balloons. Not the forty-seven people in my personal space. Not the cake that looks like a woodland fairy exploded. And certainly not the itchy tutu they’ve stuffed me into like a chubby, puffed-up marshmallow who likes being smothered in pastel tulle.
But here we are.
I’m one now, which means my parents have completely lost their damn minds.
My dad—who I used to think was the calmer of the two—is currently standing on a chair yelling “Everyone Look Over Here! She’s about to Touch the Cake!” like I’m a rare, majestic bird about to land on a perch.
His phone is in one hand, and his face is sweaty, because instead of worrying about throwing that brown ball around, he’s always worried about me.
His spawn, he calls me.
My mom is sniffling. “I just can’t believe she’s already a whole year old!”
I can’t even walk! I’ve done nothing but sit here, looking cute.
The backyard is filled with people I’m told are friends and family and Daddy’s teammates, but to me, they’re the reason I haven’t been able to nap properly since 9:00 a.m.
One of them tried to give me a bite of cheese earlier, and I’m not naming names, but Uncle Dex got yelled at by Mom because it was too small a piece and she didn’t want me choking.
Now there’s a banner above me that reads: Happy Birthday, Bronte!
Yep. That’s me.
Bronte.
After days and days of searching for the perfect name and Dad losing the battle over naming me MacGyver, they settled on Bronte McBride.
Dad still whispers MacGyver to me, though, under his breath sometimes. Like when I throw food. Or growl at him.
“Such a little MacGyver,” he says with pride—like it’s a compliment, and I don’t even know what the heck he’s talking about.
Anyway, they call me Bronte. Or sometimes B. Or B-Money, depending on how many coffees Dad’s had.
At this exact moment, I’m in a high chair that’s been decorated like a throne. A literal throne. There are vines. There are gold foil letters. There’s a glittery crown on my head and a bow in my hair. Glamma McBride says I’m the cutest thing she’s ever seen!
The cake is bigger than my torso. It’s covered in pink rosettes and edible glitter, and everyone seems emotionally invested in me smashing it with my tiny fists of rage.
Like, deeply invested. Like it’s the Super Bowl and my ability to flail these little fists into frosting is somehow symbolic of joy, freedom, and good parenting.
My mom leans down next to me. Her mascara is clinging to her lashes like it’s in survival mode. “Okay, baby girl. Are you ready? This is your moment.”
My moment to do what? I’m hungry!
I poke at the cake, tentatively.
Hmm.
If I poke it like this, I can—
Dad yells again from his perch. “She’s Doing It!”
Startled, I pause. Someone turns off the Bluetooth speaker. Silence falls like we’re at a golf tournament. All eyes on me.
I blink.
Reach for the cake again . . .
Grab a handful of frosting.
And, because I’m a little chaotic by nature, I fling it directly at Dad.
It hits his shoulder.
The room gasps.
And then—
Applause.
Wild, thunderous applause like I just solved world peace.
“Good job!” Mom coos. “Good Job, Bronte!”
Click, click goes the photographer’s camera.
Everyone has their phone pointed at me as I fist the cake and stuff it into my face, shocked that they’re letting me. Usually, Mom makes me try to use a spoon.
“She’s perfect,” Mom says.
“That’s my girl,” Dad says proudly, frosting dripping down what Mom calls his “meaty bicep.”
Someone starts playing music again—“Happy” by Pharrell, because of course—and the backyard erupts into laughter, more camera clicks.
Why is no one stopping me?
Why am I not in trouble?
Right now, I’m a lawless beast, elbows deep in frosting, cheeks sticky, crown askew.
Grandma appears next to me with a fresh baby wipe. “Let me just—” she mutters, reaching for my face . . .
I strike, ninja-like. Frosting flies.
Direct hit! Her glasses.
She gasps.
“She’s just growing up so fast,” Grandma sniffs, even though I am literally still a baby.
Everyone is being so weird.
Dad starts a speech. He holds up his drink (not milk) and clears his throat like he’s accepting an award at the ESPYs. “Friends and family, first of all, thanks so much for being here. I know a lot of you traveled to get here,” he begins, bloppity bloop.
“These past two years have been the best years of our lives,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “We got married. Became parents to the funniest, sassiest, sweetest little girl—”
He pauses for dramatic effect.
“—in the whole wide world . . .” He turns and looks at me. “Who also happens to be a frosting thief and serial remote control hider.”
He’s right. I love hiding it.
Laughter. Applause as if Dad is the funniest.
“She stole our hearts,” Dad continues dramatically. “Our sleep. Also my phone. Which she drooled on!”
More laughter.
Mom stage-whispers, “Tell them about the time she locked us out of the iPad for twenty-four hours, honey.”
“She did! She did do that!” he announces dramatically. “Five incorrect passcodes. We were digitally exiled by our own child!”
No one can get enough. I stare out at my parents’ friends, chunk of cake halfway to my mouth.
“Genius!” someone yells.
“Not like her father!”
I turn my head to the right.
Huh. What’s this?
I reach out, tiny, cake-filled hands grasping for the bopping white string . . .
Mitts take hold. I pull it, luring it into my mouth.
Yummy balloon string . . .
“Someone grab that!” Mom screeches, lunging across the picnic table like I’m about to launch into orbit.
Too late. Balloon string: acquired!
Victory is Min—
Dad intercepts with one hand and swaps it out for a rice puff.
Shoot. My brow furrows—as if that was an equal trade?
Then just as I’m about to let out a disappointed wail, things look up when someone puts a sparkler into the cake.
A Sparkler!
Directly in front of me!
I’ve only been alive 365 days, and already I’m questioning everyone’s judgment.
What is wrong with these people?
Dad smiles like he’s just proud to be nominated. “But in all seriousness . . .” He takes a drink from his glass. “There’s no playbook for this—no game plan that could’ve prepared us for how much we’d love you. You made us a family. You made me a dad.”
He looks right at me—cake-smeared, frosting-fisted chaos goblin that I am—and grins like he just scored the winning touchdown.
“We love our little MacGyver more than words. More than football. More than sleep—barely. You’re our wildest dream come true.”
I let out a burp.
A solid one.
“Did she just—?” someone murmurs.
Dad grins, puffing out his chest proudly. “She gets that from me.”
Mom rolls her eyes and wipes a smear of frosting off my nose. “She gets everything from you.”
I am, objectively, an icon.
I grab another chunk of cake and smush it into my cheek like war paint, surveying my kingdom: RAWR!
A backyard strung with sparkly streamers, half-eaten cupcakes on a plastic table, and a group of grown-ups fussing over me like I’m Beyoncé in a onesie.
Mom laughs. “She’s going to break hearts one day.”
Eventually, I start to fade. Not crash. Fade.
Like a glittery little star.
Twinkle, twinkle . . .
I’m tucked into my stroller like a burrito, pacifier in mouth, cheeks sticky with sugar and the vague memory of triumph. Grandpa McBride wheels me toward the porch.
“Nap time for the birthday bairn!” he announces, pushing my stroller through the backyard like he’s the grand marshal of a parade.
I smile at him around my paci.
You think this is over? You sweet, simple fools.
I am the queen of cake. Destroyer of clean outfits. Burper of burps.
Name’s Bronte MacGyver.
Try and forget me—I dare you.