Epilogue
Frankie
Snow falls thick and lazy outside the cabin window, soft flakes swirling in the wind. The world looks like it’s been wrapped in white ribbon.
I rest a hand on my belly and watch through the glass as Cole plays in the snow with our two boys. Their laughter carries through the cold air, bright and wild, as they gang up on him with armfuls of snowballs.
He pretends to stumble, clutching his heart dramatically. “You got me!”
The boys shriek with delight and rush him, and in one smooth move, he scoops them both up—one in each arm—as they squeal and kick, giggling uncontrollably.
I knock on the window, smiling. “Alright, you three! Inside, before you freeze solid!”
Cole looks up, that grin I fell in love with still as crooked and perfect as ever. He herds the boys toward the cabin, their boots leaving messy prints on the porch.
When he comes in, the blast of cold follows him. He sets the boys down, both pink-cheeked and laughing, shaking snow out of their hair.
“Bath time,” I tell them, pretending to sound stern. “Santa doesn’t visit boys who smell like wet mittens.”
They groan but take off running toward the stairs anyway, snow gear half peeled off and trailing behind them.
Cole watches them go, chuckling, then turns to me. His hands come to rest on my belly, warm and gentle. “How’s our little girl doing?”
I sigh, smiling. “She’s been using my kidneys as a punching bag all evening.”
He crouches slightly, his voice dropping soft and low as he speaks to my stomach. “Hey, sweetheart. I know you’re excited to meet your brothers, but you’re gonna have to wait a little longer, okay?”
She gives a solid kick in response. Cole laughs, straightens, and kisses me—slow and sweet.
“It feels like yesterday,” he murmurs, “since we had our first Christmas here.”
I smile against his lips. “It was the first of a lifetime of Christmases to come.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “I love you, Mrs. Whitaker.”
“I love you too, Mr. Whitaker.”
And as I lean into him, the fire crackling and the sound of our boys’ laughter drifting down from upstairs, I think about that first Christmas—the fake marriage, the quiet mornings, the way he used to look at me when he thought I wasn’t watching.
And I realize something simple and certain:
I will never stop feeling that same rush every time he calls me Mrs. Whitaker.