EPILOGUE TWO
Gizmo
Five Years Later
“D addy, I wanna go fast.”
Small fingers tug at mine, insistent, impatient. I glance down at my daughter, Lyric, her dark curls bouncing as she skips beside me, eyes bright, energy endless.
I grin. “Oh yeah? You wanna race?”
She gasps like I’ve just given her the greatest idea ever, her little sneakers already squeaking against the pavement as she gears up to bolt.
Hendrix laughs beside me, adjusting the strap of her baby carrier, little Ronen sleeping peacefully inside. “No racing in the parking lot. You’re going to hurt Daddy’s feelings when you beat him.”
Lyric pouts but keeps skipping. It’s early evening, the slowly falling sun casts long shadows over the pavement. Dinner out was an impromptu thing tonight, but after the long hours we’ve both been putting in lately, we needed the time to reconnect. To eat without the distraction of toys or orders or a song that just can’t wait to be written.
There is nothing that milkshakes and burgers and a simple walk down the street to where the car is parked can’t fix. Or at least that was the thought.
I’m jogging to catch up to Lyric, to not let her get too far ahead of us, when Hendrix says, “Jase.”
The warning and awe mixed together in her voice has my feet stopping. Almost as if instinct is tugging at a deep, unfathomable bond that can’t be erased with time.
Hendrix’s fingers brush against my wrist, grounding me as I turn.
And then I seeher.
She’s sitting against the worn brick wall of the gas station across the lot. She’s wrapped in layers too thin for the evening chill, but I know from experience she won’t take anything else. She’s rocking slightly as she hums a song no one else can hear.
My mother.
The world tilts some and I struggle to breathe as I take steps toward her.
She looks smaller. Frailer. The same though if that makes sense.
Her hair, once wild and tangled, is pulled into a loose ponytail, graying at the roots. Her hands shake as she rubs them together, her nails uneven, and her lips chapped.
She doesn’t see me. Maybe she does. I don’t know, but I know she doesn’t know me. She hasn’t in years.
I stand there, my breath caught painfully in my chest, as Hendrix laces her fingers with mine.
Then, the softest voice I know breaks through the quiet.
“Hi,” says Lyric.
My mother stops rocking. Slowly, she lifts her gaze, unfocused at first, lost in whatever world she’s trapped inside. But then... something shifts.
Her vacant, cloudy eyessee.
Not me. Not Hendrix. Buther . Her granddaughter.
A slow smile spreads across her cracked lips as I struggle with the fear of whether she’ll hurt Lyric or lash out and scare her.
But then she speaks and the breath I’m holding loosens.
“Well, hello there,” she says, her voice raspy but gentle. “Aren’t you just the prettiest thing.”
Lyric giggles and my heart cracks.
My mother’s expression softens in a way I haven’t seen in decades, in a way I thought was lost forever. She doesn’t recognize me, doesn’t evenblinkin my direction.
But she sees my little girl.
And in this moment, that’s enough.
“Do you like flowers?” my mother asks, her hands trembling as she reaches into her coat pocket, pulling out something delicate and frayed—an old paper flower, tattered and worn at the edges. “I saved this one. For someone special.”
My daughter nods enthusiastically. “It’s pretty.”
Lyric steps forward before I can stop her, before I can break out of being mesmerized to think clearly, and gently takes the fragile paper bloom from my mother’s hand.
I don’t breathe.
I don’t move.
I just watch.
My mother smiles, something distant but peaceful flickering in her eyes. She touches a strand of my daughter’s hair like she’s touching something sacred. “Beautiful curls,” she murmurs. “Like an angel’s.”
The ache in my chest tightens, a mixture of grief and something impossibly tender.
She doesn’t know she’s looking at her granddaughter.
She doesn’t know she’smeetinga piece of me.
But maybe, in some small way, shedoes.
Maybe her heart recognizes what her mind can’t.
My throat burns and Hendrix squeezes my hand.
Then, just as quickly as the moment happened, it’s gone.
My mother’s gaze drifts again, lost, slipping back into whatever space exists beyond my reach. She hums softly, rocking again, eyes focused on things I can’t see.
I exhale slowly, kneeling beside my daughter, brushing my hand over her curls. “Come on, sweetheart. Say goodbye.”
She studies me before looking back at my mother. “Thank you for the flower.”
My mother doesn’t respond. Can’t. But as we walk away, I swallow over the lump in my throat, my free hand curling into a fist as I force myself to keep moving, to keep walking.
When we reach the car, Hendrix turns to me, her eyes full of understanding, full ofknowing. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’thaveto.
Instead, she just steps forward, places her hand on my chest, and rests her forehead on my shoulder.
And just like that . . .
The pieces of my broken heart shift.
Not mended. Not fully whole.
But still beating.
Still here.
Still holding on to the people who matter most. The ones who have taught me time and again just how worthy of love I am.
I close my eyes, exhaling as I press a kiss to the top of Hendrix’s head, to my nine-month-old son’s, and then to my daughter’s curls as she leans against me, still holding on to that fragile paper flower.
Maybe my mother will forget this moment.
Maybe she’ll never truly know us.
But tonight, for a breath in time, she sawher.
And for now, that’s enough.