EPILOGUE - BAILEY
LATE SUMMER
Finn O’Malley has been a father for three days, and he has already developed several deeply held opinions about swaddling.
This morning, at four-seventeen a.m., he stood beside our bed in nothing but gray boxer briefs and a terrifying amount of determination, holding our daughter like she was a tiny, furious burrito.
“She’s got one arm out,” he whispered, horrified.
I blinked at him through the kind of exhaustion I never thought was possible. “She has two arms. It was bound to happen eventually.”
“She’s not supposed to be this strong yet.”
“She’s an O’Malley.”
That stopped him for exactly half a second.
Then he looked down at Gracie Rose O’Malley, who weighed less than seven pounds and had already ruined both of us completely, and his entire face collapsed into total softness.
“She is,” he said.
And then I cried.
Not loudly or dramatically. Just enough that Finn immediately panicked, which made Gracie startle, which made me laugh and cry harder because, clearly, motherhood is mostly fluids and emotional whiplash.
We’re home now.
Not the hospital with nurses coming in every twenty minutes, machines beeping, forms to sign, and people asking about pain levels when I barely knew where my own body ended, and the baby began.
Our home. The little house we’ve been slowly turning into ours since spring, one drawer, one toothbrush, one argument at a time.
Gracie sleeps against Finn’s chest in the living room, tucked beneath his chin in a soft pink sleeper that says Rookie of the Year because Beck and Sienna should never be trusted near baby clothes with a credit card.
Finn is on the couch, bare feet on the rug, dark hair a mess, eyes heavy, one enormous hand spread over Gracie’s back. He hasn’t moved in twenty minutes except to breathe.
I sit beside him with a blanket over my legs, a pillow behind my back, and a body that feels like it ran a marathon, lost a bar fight, and somehow came home with the world’s most beautiful consolation prize.
I am tired in places I did not know could be tired.
I am happy in places I did not know could hold joy.
I am also leaking milk, wearing mesh underwear, and considering marrying whoever invented ice packs.
Since I already chose Finn, this would have to be more of a symbolic gesture.
“You should get some sleep,” I say.
Finn’s eyes flick to mine. “I’m awake.”
“You’re blinking one eye at a time.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
“You only slept for about forty minutes.”
“Quality over quantity.”
“You put the orange juice in the freezer this morning. I found it when I went to get an ice pack.”
He looks down at Gracie. “Your mother is using facts against me.”
“She should get used to that.”
“She will. I’m going to raise her to appreciate evidence.”
He rubs one finger gently along Gracie’s back, and the room goes quiet around the tiny movement.
“She’s still breathing, right?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I know she is. I can feel her.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because my brain has become a haunted house.”
I lean into his shoulder, careful not to disturb the baby. “Mine too.”
His head turns, and he presses a kiss to my hair. “You okay?”
It’s the question he asks all the time now, but not the way he used to. He doesn’t ask like he’s waiting for the answer. He asks like he can sit with whatever I give him.
I take a breath and let myself be honest.
“Sore. Exhausted. Happy. Overwhelmed. Hungry, but also too tired to chew.”
“Noted.”
I lift my head. “Finn.”
He smiles a little. “I said noted, not action plan.”
That gets a tired laugh out of me.
He kisses my temple again. “I already made you toast.”
“You did?”
“It’s on the coffee table.”
I look that way, and there’s toast on a plate beside my water bottle, cut into triangles. Peanut butter on one side, butter on the other, because I have become a woman who requires options.
My throat tightens.
He sees it and gives me a warning look. “Don’t cry because I made you toast.”
“I might.”
“Bailey.”
“You cut it into triangles.”
“That was structural. Easier to eat with one hand.”
I stare at him like he’s lost his mind.
Before I can fully embarrass myself over bread, there’s a knock at the front door.
Finn freezes.
So do I.
Gracie sleeps through it because she is new here and doesn’t yet understand that our friends and family have no respect for privacy.
Finn’s eyes narrow. “I told them four.”
I glance at the clock. “It’s four, and you agreed to this.”
“I agreed to one group visit to get it over with so they’d leave us alone afterward. I did not emotionally prepare for it to become real.”
The knock comes again, followed by Jade’s voice through the door. “We know you’re in there. There’s a baby to meet, and we have food.”
Finn closes his eyes. “She’s going to cry.”
“Jade?”
“Yes.”
I laugh, then wince because laughing still feels dangerous.
Finn notices immediately. “Pain?”
“Tiny bit.”
“Do you need meds? Water? The weird pillow?”
I touch his arm. “I’m okay. Let them in before Jade starts picking the lock.”
“She absolutely would.”
Finn stands carefully, Gracie still tucked against him, and walks to the door with the focused caution of a man carrying a priceless artifact through a museum full of trip hazards.
When he opens it, the entire world pours into our house.
Not literally.
It only feels that way.
Emerson comes in first, soft-eyed and carrying a casserole dish.
Knox follows with two bags of groceries.
Jade enters behind them with flowers, diapers, and eyes already wet.
Priya and Ty come next, and Ty is holding a gift bag covered in tiny hockey sticks while looking unusually serious, which concerns me.
Maren and Nico bring bakery boxes and something that smells like actual dinner.
Sienna and Beck arrive last with practical supplies because they are parents and therefore know that cute outfits are lovely, but paper towels and freezer meals are how civilization survives.
Dylan, Gavin, and Roman trail in after them like three men who have seen plenty of intense situations in their lives but are not entirely sure they are prepared for a newborn in Finn’s arms.
The living room fills with voices, bags, coats, food containers, and the kind of excitement everyone is trying very hard to keep quiet.
It’s not quiet. It’s just quieter than usual.
Jade sees Gracie and immediately presses both hands to her mouth.
“No,” I say from the couch.
“I’m not crying,” she says, voice wobbling.
“You are.”
Priya steps closer to Finn and looks at the baby. Her face softens. “Oh, Bailey. She’s perfect.”
Ty leans over Priya’s shoulder, and for once, he doesn’t say something ridiculous right away. He just looks at Gracie with wide eyes.
Then he whispers, “She’s so small.”
Priya turns slightly, and their shoulders brush.
Ty doesn’t move away.
Neither does she.
I file that away for later, because motherhood has not killed my ability to notice romantic tension.
Sienna sets a bag on the coffee table and begins unpacking like she’s stocking a bunker. “Pads, snacks, electrolyte drinks, nipple cream, extra wipes, and the good burp cloths. Not the cute ones. The ones that actually absorb things.”
Beck points at a second bag. “And dinner. Also breakfast.”
Finn looks at them with genuine awe. “This is why parenting should come with a supply list.”
Sienna smiles. “We’ve done this twice. We earned the knowledge in battle.”
“Respect.”
Emerson sits beside me and takes my hand. Her eyes move over my face, reading me with terrifying accuracy. “You look beautiful.”
“I look like I haven’t slept in a month.”
“Both are true.”
That nearly makes me cry, too.
Knox sets the groceries in the kitchen, then comes back and rests a hand on Finn’s shoulder while looking down at Gracie. “Congratulations, man.”
Finn swallows hard. “Thanks.”
It is one word, but I hear everything underneath it.
So does Knox.
He squeezes Finn’s shoulder once, then steps back.
Dylan stands near the doorway with his arms crossed, staring at Finn holding Gracie.
“What?” Finn asks.
Dylan shakes his head slowly. “Nothing.”
“You look weird.”
“I’m witnessing something I never really expected to see.”
“That sounds alarming.”
“It’s not.” Dylan’s mouth curves slightly. “You look good, Dad.”
Finn goes still.
I do too.
Some words find their way into a room and change the air.
Dad is one of them.
Finn looks down at Gracie, and for a second, the noise around us fades. He doesn’t smile right away. His expression shifts into something quieter. Deeper. Like the word settles somewhere special and stays there.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I do.”
Gavin comes closer, studying Gracie with calm attention. “She has a strong grip.”
“She grabbed my finger at the hospital,” Finn says. “I nearly blacked out.”
Roman leans in beside Gavin, expression serious. “She is very small.”
“That is how babies start,” Maren says gently.
Roman nods once, as if accepting information from a trusted source.
Ty lifts his gift bag. “I brought something.”
Finn gives him a look. “Should I be worried?”
“Usually, yes. But not today.”
Ty pulls out a tiny Ravens jersey with O’Malley on the back and the number 17 below it.
My eyes fill again.
Finn stares at it.
“Too much?” Ty asks.
“No,” Finn says, voice rough. “It’s perfect.”
Ty looks relieved enough that Priya softens beside him.
Definitely interesting.
Jade moves toward the couch with the flowers, then stops to look at me. “Can I hug you, or are you going to leak all over me?”
“I’ll try not to, but no guarantees.”
She hugs me like I might crack, which is absurd and exactly right. When she pulls back, she wipes under her eye.
For the next hour, our house becomes a soft, chaotic rotation of love.