Epilogue
Jude
One Year Later
I’m on my second coffee, standing at the window and looking out to the fence line.
Old habit. I don’t think I’ll ever shake it, but what comes out of the trees these days is different from what it used to be.
Deer, raccoons, squirrels… I’ve seen it all, but no bear sightings since that day Birdy stumbled onto my property.
Sometimes I wonder if the bear was sent by some deity to make sure I met my wife.
That’s right. My wife. I still grin every time I think about how the most amazing woman on the planet married me. I proposed last July, in the middle of the dahlia field, and it was one of the best moments of my life.
So far, at least. Because now, I’ve got another thing that adds to my happiness—and trust me when I say that I didn’t think my heart could grow even bigger… until Birdy told me she was pregnant with our daughter.
I quickly wipe a lone tear away before she can see what a softie I am when it comes to my girls.
I hear stumbling from the bedroom before my wife appears in the kitchen doorway in one of my flannels, which doesn’t close properly over her stomach anymore.
“Coffee,” she says, squinting at the morning light.
“Sure. Decaf, though,” I say.
She gives me a look. “I want coffee.”
“Decaf. For the baby,” I repeat and pour her a cup. “How’d you sleep?”
“Better.” She perches on the barstool and rests one hand on her stomach. “She was quiet for once.”
“That’s good.”
I lean down and kiss her, something I knew last year I’d never grow tired of. “I love you, Birdy.”
“I love you more.”
I grin. “That’s impossible. I love you more.”
“I love you whatever you say plus one,” she says and laughs.
I can’t help but laugh too. Then I make her breakfast. Afterward, I clean the kitchen, while she sets up her laptop for her Thursday class prep. She still works at Nell’s farm during busy periods, but now she’s found her calling: teaching.
Forty-three students are enrolled in her class, which she called Backyard Blooms: Building a Pollinator Patch From Scratch.
She answers every question, remembers every name, and gets genuinely excited when someone messages her a photo of their first seedling pushing through the soil.
At first, I didn’t understand, but then she explained that every square foot of backyard turned into something for the bees is a win.
Right after that, I fenced off a huge area in the backyard and helped her put compost on the new flower beds.
I always find reasons to walk through the kitchen while she’s working.
I’m not subtle about it, and she knows I’m not subtle about it, but neither of us mentions it.
It’s just what I do now: check on her, make sure she’s warm, comfortable, not sitting in a draft, and has everything she needs.
Fifteen years of making sure people had what they needed in the worst moments of their lives.
I thought I was done, but I had one more person to look after.
Just one, but one who means the whole world to me.
I’m pulling on my jacket to go outside and build the greenhouse I promised my wife when she calls me over.
“Hey,” she says excitedly. “Class is on break, and I really need you to come over here.”
I cross the kitchen to her. She takes my hand and presses it flat against her stomach, and then I feel it. A small, definitive movement. Like a hello from someone who isn’t here yet but is making their presence known. This time, I can’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks.
“You’re such a softie, Jude.”
“I know,” I say.
There’s no point in denying it. I stand there with my hand on her stomach and the spring light coming through the window, and the mountain doing its quiet, unhurried thing outside, and I think about the man I was a year ago.
Standing at this same window with a coffee going cold, watching the tree line.
I didn’t know what I was waiting for. I do now.
She’s sitting right here, stealing my flannel shirts and drinking decaf under protest and teaching strangers how to grow flowers to feed the bees.
She’s mine, and I’m hers, and out there somewhere is a bear who brought us together and turned a disaster into a miracle.
I head outside and hum a song to myself. Life is good.
No, life is perfect. And it’s all because of Birdy.