Epilogue 1 Holly
Eight months later. Late May. Monday early morning.
It’s wild how fast eight months can go. One minute you’re peeing on a stick, the next thing you know, your belly is so big you can’t see your feet.
Thank God for slip-on shoes.
“Baby, Shelby’s outside,” Dexter says, poking his head in.
“Be down in a sec.”
He stands in the bedroom doorway with a smile on his face, just staring at me.
“What, Dimples?” I ask.
“Nothing. I like looking at you.”
I shake my head, heaving myself off the bed. “Why? I’m a yoga ball with legs.”
“A beautiful yoga ball with legs. Pregnant with our babies.”
“Yeah, the same ones who headbutted my bladder in the middle of the night.”
“So that’s why you sprinted out of bed at 3 a.m.”
“Please, I haven’t sprinted in months.”
He laughs and wraps me in a hug. “They’ll be here any day now.”
“They better be. As much as I’ve loved being pregnant, I’m over it.”
We head down the stairs of our new townhouse.
It still smells of sawdust and fresh paint.
Dexter bought this place two doors down from Shelby’s the second it went on the market and renovated it.
Being a hundred-year-old townhouse, it had “character” (which is a polite way of saying uneven floors and questionable plumbing).
But the essentials are done: the nursery, kitchen, bathroom, and our bedroom.
The guest rooms and the rest are still very much a work in progress. And honestly, I don’t care.
Because so far, it’s beautiful. We’ve got space for us, space for the babies, and Shelby’s just down the way. We eat together almost every night. It’s a bit chaotic, usually loud, and rarely tidy, but it works. Because someone always makes sure it does.
And on the rare, very special days, Dexter bakes.
His dad’s recipe, pulled from a stack of yellowed index cards I didn’t even know he kept.
He calls them whoopie pies. They’re soft chocolate cakey cookies with a lush vanilla cream filling that smears just a little when you bite into them, so soft in the middle, and a little crumbly at the edges.
They taste sweet, chocolatey, and once you start, it’s hard to stop.
Oh, and speaking of lush and sweet and hard to stop, guess what?
Dexter got his photoshoot. Several, in fact (lucky bastard!).
Every inch of me, belly and all, an entire album to prove it and still more pages to fill.
It lives safely out of sight, except for the two photos he already framed and hung in our bedroom bathroom.
Two that show not just me, but us. Well, parts of us.
He set the camera up, hit the timer, and barely made it back in time.
The first shot freezes us mid-shuffle, me adjusting the robe, hair a mess, a little too much boob because I moved at the wrong second, him only half in frame.
The second is from right after. Same spot, same robe, but we’re both laughing our asses off, faces red, eyes squeezed shut.
It’s unstaged, unfiltered, and somehow perfect because of it.
Sometimes I catch myself staring at it longer than I’ll ever admit. What can I say, I’d frame this hot bitch too.
Or like Dexter says, “You look like my snack.” I do!
Speaking of which, he hands me a bag with lunch. Snacks included. “Have a great first day. I’ll swing by after work.”
“How’s the new office coming?”
“Good. Thorne UK should open in six weeks.”
If I had a few more minutes (or at least ninety seconds) and Shelby weren’t honking her head off, I’d drag him back upstairs.
We kiss.
“Have a good day. Text me if you need anything,” Dexter says, showing me out the door.
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Getting in the van takes two tries. Shelby cackles the entire time.
“Brilliant. You’ve got the full waddle now.”
“Oh, hush up, you,” I say, settling in. “I’ll waddle you in a minute.”
“Ooh, touchy.” She puts the car in gear. “You ready?”
“Oh so ready.”
The place came together fast. Shelby handled the curriculum and hiring, I did the building design and business side. Seven months of hard work, and now our private kindergarten is officially open.
Today’s the first day. I’m ecstatic.
And… so uncomfortable.
I keep shifting in my seat, trying not to look like I’m in early labor. Shelby catches on.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Fine. Just… tight. Like I’m smuggling watermelons.”
“No contractions?”
“Nope.”
She parks the Berlingo, eyeing me sideways. “You can go home after the morning rush, no one will mind.”
“Shelby. I’m not missing this.”
“All right. But you’re not lifting a finger. Or waddling any more than is strictly necessary.”
“Deal. Just let me pee first.” I grab my bag. “You look nice, by the way.”
She pats her hair. “I’ve put mascara on. Bit of a wild move.”
“You seeing someone?”
She lifts a brow. “Not yet. But I did tell the universe I’m ready. Told Nico too. He asked if he had to call anyone ‘Dad’ and I said only if I marry a tattooed billionaire with a motorcycle and abs you could grate cheese on.”
I laugh and open the door. “I fully support that plan.”
The morning is a madhouse in the best way.
We’ve got balloons tied to the railings in every color we could find, and they’re happily whipping around.
Parents are bunched up by the gates, some smiling, some looking like they’re about to cry, and at least one mom hanging back so long I’m tempted to offer her a cup of tea.
There are toddlers clinging to legs, one dramatic separation at the front gate, and a shoe crisis before 9:15 a.m.
A few parents brought flowers. One handed over a tin of homemade biscuits and declared: “This is exactly what we needed round here.” I almost cried.
Shelby handles the morning circle. I juggle paperwork, answer questions, and discreetly mop up spilled oat milk with a stack of registration forms I probably shouldn’t have used (don’t tell Shelby).
We hired a brilliant admin to keep us sane, but day one still means drowning in paperwork: mostly final forms from parents who signed up weeks ago, plus a few last-minute families who decided today was the day.
For now, it’s all hands on deck, and that’s the best possible problem.
It means every sleepless night and broken nail was worth it.
And the space. Gosh, we love this space.
Once the morning rush fades, I wander through the classrooms with my clipboard, pretending I’m checking something.
Really, I’m just… proud. We were meant to open “Two Sisters Nursery” in January, but between permits, renovation perfectionism (mostly Shelby’s), and one very pregnant founder, we took our time.
Spring turned into the perfect window for getting the garden planted, building custom furniture, finishing safety inspections, and spreading the word.
Now it’s May, and we’ve finally opened our doors.
After careful consideration, I pushed for a soft start with just a few brave families, and Shelby and Dexter were on the same page.
Being private means we can welcome kids as they come and ease into full enrollment by September.
That works out, since I won’t be squeezing past tiny chairs with a baby on each hip.
The delay feels worth it, though, standing here.
In the UK, a lot of period buildings, especially Victorian or Edwardian, have arched sash windows with deep framing.
These thick-framed white ones, curved at the top, were what made me fall for this building in the first place.
After the renovations, they let in loads of light, right across the little tables and shelves and everything we’ve set up for the kids.
The walls are a warm cream-yellow. Happy, but not kindergarten-screaming happy.
We agreed on the kind of color that doesn’t overstimulate but still feels cheerful on a gray London morning.
The flooring is oak laminate with a matte finish.
It’s soft enough for crawling knees but tough enough to survive juice spills and finger paint, and whatever else ends up on them.
The bookshelves are birch ply, built low so small hands can grab what they want, with rounded corners and built-in cubbies.
We kept things simple. Everything is wood, cotton, wool. It smells like it too.
The mural, done by Shelby’s kids over the winter, makes me grin every time I pass it.
Nico painted a red double-decker bus floating in the sky “Because it’s London, obviously.”
Louise added a sun with a smiling face and a row of ballet slippers hanging on a cloud. Very pink. Very Louise. “’Cause I’m going to be a ballerina, silly,” she said, lifting her chin with mock pride at Nico’s fake gagging noises.
He pointed at the bus. “Mine’s still cooler.”
And baby Joey? His contribution was a blue smear where his chubby hand slipped, instead of the classic handprint.
Right in the middle of a sunbeam. We kept it, and the five of us turned it into a rainbow.
Nico added bold red, orange, and green stripes, Louise insisted on pink (“rainbows can have pink if I say so”), Shelby tried to keep the colors from bleeding everywhere, and I brushed in the yellow. Shelby calls it “modern art.”
Of course, I’ve already claimed a corner of our office for the twins: two little cribs side by side, a changing table, and the world’s comfiest armchair.
It’s not Pinterest-perfect, but it works.
From there I can juggle the business side of things (budgets, schedules, making sure the staff have what they need), while keeping an eye on my babies. Call it multitasking, Holly-style.
By noon, the kids are down for naps or at least pretending to be. The ones who aren’t, Shelby has corralled into singing something about wiggly worms.
I’m in the office, feet up after a day of running around, wondering if it’s socially acceptable to have lunch lying down, when the door creaks open.
Dexter.
He’s in a dark blue suit, cheeks slightly pink from the wind, and hair a little windswept.