Epilogue
JAMIE
Five years later…
The kitchen smells like buttercream and burnt sugar because I miscalculated the caramel by about thirty seconds, which, for someone who runs a food truck called Sweet Savory and has a laminated schedule on the fridge that says TUESDAY: PREP DESSERT BURRITOS, is genuinely embarrassing.
The caramel is fine. It's just darker than I wanted. Jenna will not care. Jenna has been awake since five-thirty AM vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear, and at this point, she would eat the cake pan.
The house handles birthday chaos better than I expected when we bought it — all clean lines and big windows and that open floor plan that seemed excessive until I had three children who require constant line-of-sight supervision.
The walnut floors show every crumb. I knew this when I chose them and I chose them anyway. Some decisions you make with full information and zero regret.
From the kitchen, I have a direct view into the living room.
This is where Jackson is.
Jenna is on his shoulders. James is hanging off his left arm with both hands, feet dangling, using Jackson's forearm as a jungle gym. Julian is asleep in the crook of Jackson's right elbow, one fist curled against his cheek, completely unbothered by the chaos happening eight inches from his face.
Jackson is standing in the middle of the living room, holding all three of them, watching the birthday balloon that Jenna accidentally let go of drift toward the ceiling.
"It's gone," he tells her.
"Get it, Daddy."
"I'd have to put you down."
Jenna considers this with the gravity of a five-year-old who is not putting herself down under any circumstances. James is still swinging. Julian sleeps on.
"Use your other hand," Jenna decides.
"My other hand has your brother in it."
"James can hold himself."
"I can," James confirms, from where he is absolutely not holding himself.
I bite the inside of my cheek because if I laugh, Jenna will redirect her energy at me, and I cannot handle that right now. The caramel needs me.
Greg Dickson has been in prison for four years.
His school is gone. The instructors who watched and said nothing lost their jobs in a very public way when the other students came forward.
I think about him roughly as often as I think about that burned caramel batch — briefly, and mostly to confirm it's behind me.
Right now I'm thinking about my husband, who is six foot seven and built like a structural wall, trying to negotiate balloon retrieval with a five-year-old on his shoulders while our three-year-old uses his arm as playground equipment and our baby naps through all of it.
He looks up and finds me watching him from the kitchen doorway.
"The balloon is gone," he says.
"I see that."
"Jenna thinks I should get it."
"Mm."
His expression does not change. "Helpful."
Jenna grabs two fistfuls of his hair to rebalance herself. James achieves a full horizontal swing. Julian sighs in his sleep.
I turn back to my caramel.
I love this life.