34. Bonus Epilogue
Chase
Four years later
The wind rustles my hair as I stand on the grassy, well-kept lawn. The fronds of a palm tree cast jagged patterns on the ground in front of me.
“Hi, Mom,” I say to the modest headstone, made of smooth granite with soft, rounded edges. At the top, there is an engraved bouquet of wildflowers—her favorite. The inscription reads: Heidi Marie Beckett, beloved wife, mother, and friend.
And now, she has another title: Grandma.
The bundle in my arms makes a soft whimper as my newborn daughter shifts against my chest. Her tiny face peeks out from the blanket, her skin tinged pink, a wisp of dark hair fluttering in the gentle March breeze.
I sniffle back emotion. It’s been four years, and this never really gets easier. The heartache has dulled over time, softened at the edges … but visiting the spot where we laid my mom to rest still leaves me feeling hollow. That’s why I don’t visit often.
“I want to introduce you to someone,” I say, stepping forward. In my mind, I picture my mom leaning casually against the headstone, a bright, proud smile on her face as she looks down at her first grandchild.
“This is my daughter, Kate.” My voice catches when I say her name. I swallow hard. “Katherine Heidi Beckett, actually.”
When we found out we were having a girl, Maggie and I knew right away we wanted to honor our moms by giving her both of their names. Everyone cried when we told them. Well, everyone except Devon—but I’m pretty sure I saw him blinking extra hard.
It’s only been a week since Kate was born, and already it feels like our greatest adventure yet: becoming parents. Maggie’s body is healing slowly but surely, and we’re more exhausted than I think we’ve ever been. Between feedings, diaper changes, and Googling things like “why is my baby’s poop that color,” we’re somehow making it work—bleary-eyed and absolutely in love with our baby girl.
“Hey,” Maggie says as she walks up to us, holding Oscar’s leash as he trots next to her, her constant companion. Since Maggie came into the picture, he’s had no interest in me—unless I’ve got a treat or a walk to bribe him with.
She peers over my arm at a sleeping Kate, a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in her free hand—the ones she ran back to the car to grab.
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s just fine,” I say with a smile. It’s become the most-asked question of the week.It’s strange how quickly life shifts—from sleeping in and spontaneous takeout to tracking feedings and fearing every strange noise, all in the span of a few days.
“And did you introduce her to your mom?” she asks, stepping in close, resting her head lightly on my arm.
“I did,” I say, feeling moisture gather at the corners of my eyes again. It’s been a while since I cried over my mom. For a time, I wondered if it would ever stop … if I’d ever be able to think about her without that sharp, aching sting. But grief has a way of changing. It still lives in me, but now it shares space with happiness. With love. With Maggie. And now, with Kate.
It’s hard not to feel sad about all the things my mom is missing. She wasn’t there when Kenzie got married, or when Maggie and I said our vows a month later at Papago Park—green grass beneath our feet, red rocky hills rising behind us.
She wasn’t there for the birth of her first grandbaby, and she won’t be here for the next one, either. Kenzie’s due with a baby boy in just over a month.
She’ll miss the milestones. First steps. First words. School parades with construction paper crowns. Bedtime stories and birthday candles.
But somehow, I hope she knows—I hope she feels it, that she’s still part of it all. That she’s in the middle of every moment, even if we can’t see her there.
“Do you think your mom’s annoyed that we named her Katherine Heidi instead of Heidi Katherine?” Maggie asks after a moment.
“No,” I say without hesitation. “She’d be honored to share a name with your mom.”
“Good,” Maggie nods. “I don’t want to get on her bad side.”
I chuckle. I love that she talks about my mom like she’s right here with us.
Maybe she is.
“She would’ve loved you,” I say, leaning over to kiss her forehead.
I’ve told her that many times, and it’s the truth. My mom would have adored Maggie. She would’ve loved her warmth, her dry humor, her ability to listen without trying to fix things. She would’ve loved the way Maggie talks about her family—how fiercely she loves them. And she definitely would’ve loved the way Maggie lights up a room without even trying.
It’s all the things I love about her, and so much more.
Maggie steps away, and she and Oscar walk over to the grave. She places the flower bouquet on the headstone, whispering something as she does.
“What did you say?” I ask when the two of them walk back to us.
“Oh, I just told your mom how you got lightheaded and almost passed out during our daughter’s birth,” she says.
“Tattletale,” I mutter, shaking my head. But I’m smiling.
I had no idea how overwhelming the whole thing would be. I’d never seen someone give birth before, and at one point—while Maggie was pushing—I forgot to breathe and started seeing stars. I was immediately fired from holding one of her legs, and her sister Chelsea took over. I felt like a total idiot.
Maggie shakes her head, grinning at me. “Actually, I told her it’s only been a week, but you’re already an amazing dad and that she’d be so proud of you.”
She gives me a watery smile, and I give her one back. Kate lets out a soft cry, like she wants to chime in, but then her little face relaxes and she drifts back to sleep.
“Thank you,” I say, barely able to speak past the lump in my throat. I want to say it to Maggie too—to tell her that her mom would be in awe of her. So proud to see her daughter take on motherhood with the same determination and wholeheartedness she brings to everything else in life.
But the words catch. I can’t get them out right now.
Instead, a tear slides down my cheek, and I lean into my wife. She wraps an arm around me, our baby tucked safely between us.
In a perfect world, our moms would be here for all of it—for the first smiles, the milestones, the quiet in-between moments. But maybe, if life had gone differently, Maggie and I never would’ve crossed paths.
No wrong number.
No accidental text.
I hate that loss is what brought us together, but I’m also incredibly thankful for what it gave me.
For what it gave us.
THE END