Epilogue #2
Aiden’s arm slides around my shoulders, warm and steady, his thumb tracing an idle line along my upper arm.
I lean into him without thinking, my head finding its place against his shoulder like it always does now.
The ease of it still surprises me sometimes, the way our bodies seem to understand the shape of each other without instruction.
“There,” I murmur after a moment, when the familiar movement stirs again.
Mason freezes, his eyes going wide as he concentrates. “She kicked!” he whispers.
Carlie’s phone appears instantly. She angles it just right, snapping a picture before any of us can protest. “This one’s going on the Christmas card. Frame it. Laminate it. Whatever you need to do.”
I laugh, but when she turns the screen toward me, the sound catches in my throat.
The photo isn’t perfect. Mason’s hair is a mess, Aiden’s T-shirt is wrinkled, and I’m slouched into the couch with my feet tucked awkwardly under a pillow.
I’ve even got a hint of a double chin. But Aiden’s arm is around me, Mason is grinning between us, and my hand rests protectively over my belly like it’s always belonged there.
This is us.
I look around the living room—the scattered toys, the stack of mail on the side table, the faint smell of coffee still lingering in the air—and feel a wave of gratitude so strong it makes my chest ache.
Six years ago, I thought I’d lost my chance at happiness entirely.
I thought love was something you either got right the first time or paid for forever after.
I didn’t know then that it could circle back. That it could grow sturdier with time. That it could survive mistakes and distance and fire.
Aiden presses a kiss to my temple, gentle and unassuming. “No regrets?” he asks quietly, his voice just for me.
“I could have arched my back a little for that picture and maybe I wouldn’t look so tired, but—”
He chuckles. “I meant…” He glances around the room, before he turns the wedding ring on my finger. “This. Us. All of it.”
I turn my head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Only that we wasted six years. Not wasted, not really. I think we both learned a lot in that time.” I sigh contentedly. “But we have forever now.”
Mason snorts. “Forever’s a really long time.”
“Yes, it is,” Aiden agrees.
Mason considers this deeply, his brow furrowing. “Does that mean I have to share my room with the baby forever?”
The laughter that follows is warm and easy, filling the room. Carlie laughs loudest, clutching her chest dramatically, while Aiden promises negotiations and compromises that make Mason nod like he’s entering a serious business arrangement.
As if we haven’t spent the past four months decorating one of the spare bedrooms into a nursery. But Mason has said over and over that he wants the baby to sleep in his room so he can watch out for her, and part of me is tempted to let him be that kind of big brother. I love that he wants to be.
I lean back against Aiden’s shoulder and close my eyes for a moment, letting the sound of my family wash over me.
Snow begins to fall sometime after the television volume dips low enough to become background noise, soft flakes drifting past the living room windows and settling over the quiet street outside.
The neighborhood looks hushed and untouched under its white blanket.
The world narrows down to this warm room, this couch, this family piled together.
Aiden’s arm is still around my shoulders, while Mason shifts closer, half-asleep from his sugar crash but unwilling to give up his spot between us.
The day slows even further, stretching into something unstructured and gentle. Quietly, I note, “Feels like a soup day.”
Aiden nods gently not to wake Mason. “I can get on that—”
“Not yet. Let’s just… enjoy the quiet.”
He smiles and settles again. Carlie eventually dozes off at the far end of the couch, claiming she’s “just resting her eyes.” Mason’s hand remains on my belly, his breathing evening out as sleep finally claims him. Aiden adjusts slightly so Mason doesn’t slip.
This family didn’t arrive neatly or easily.
It was pieced together through loss, stubbornness, forgiveness, and an unreasonable amount of faith.
Six years ago, I didn’t know then that the strongest love is the kind that endures, adapts, and chooses to stay even after everything burns.
He was right back then—I was too young for it. Too inexperienced.
As much as I hate that we spent six years apart for bad reasons, I think we both needed that. We appreciate what we have so much more now.
Without that first heartbreak, there’d be no ex-husband. Without the ex-husband, there’d be no Mason. And I can’t imagine my life without him. He’s a part of me—the best part of me.
For Aiden, he used that time to build a career and a life that felt empty to him. He loved what he did—he’s a helper down to his bones—but without a family to come home to, it rang hollow.
Now, I have my son, and Aiden has a family. Neither of us take any of that for granted.
As I drift toward a Sunday morning nap, surrounded by the steady presence of my husband, my son, and the life we built together, the thought settles in gently. Sometimes the best love stories are the ones that burn slow, survive the fire, and rise from the ashes stronger than before.