Epilogue #2
The book is in bookstores, lost between Paulo Coelho and cupcake cookbooks.
I sign copies, I smile, they ask for selfies, and I’ve got the face of someone who lucked out on a scratch-off they didn’t expect to win.
People DM me on Instagram: I laughed, I cried, thank you.
Now I’m the girl who writes. In my head, I’m handing out bookmarks, I go on The Tonight Show , Rosalía slides into my DMs with a "hey, queen," and I answer with a duck sticker. In real life, I keep my head down, proofread, and pretend I’ve got it handled.
"Make him say 'Alaska,'" I blurt, just to see. "It’ll save this kid years of therapy."
Three of them look at me and two laugh. Better. Next fantasy: he says "ham" and Boar’s Head signs me as an ambassador with a salary and my own meat slicer. Next reality: I have to wipe drool off Sabina’s shoulder.
Sabina kisses the kid on the crown of his head and church-silence falls. The baby opens his mouth, lets out air; we all go rigid. If he says "Grandma," we toast. If he says "ham," we slice another platter. If he says "Alaska," I slap on a dollar-store birthday crown and go live.
Truth is, even if they clap for the author bit, I hide behind words and see if I can get away with it. Some days I buy it, other days… not so much. Today I’d rather laugh and ask for another slice.
Meanwhile, Irina—in another life, a KGB instructor—keeps handing me secrets by the pair.
No recipes, no household tutorials. We talk about things that don’t fit any agenda and don’t show up on any map.
The boss calls me into her office with this weird mix of interrogation, therapy, and playful threat.
She fires questions like she’s sure I’m carrying a folder with all the answers.
"Again, from the top."
I don’t even sigh anymore. I do a whole grumpy act, but inside I’m thrilled. If I pass, I want to climb onto the roof and do a handstand. And no, not allowed. I asked. Insurance.
Julia knows every rule and recites them without breathing.
Rashel stakes out the territory and lets you know exactly how far you go.
Sabina proves you can cross rough ground in heels and keep your feet perfect.
Amaia makes sure I eat. Luna and Valeria decide no sweat, no flowers, so they drag me out to the garden for a Hunger Games survival circuit, minus the leather pants.
And Nat—oh, Nat—always on the stairs with her glass of water and that face that says "you’ve got this," which isn’t meant as pressure, but Before her, even a tiny grocery bag felt like too much.
"Hey, writer," Nat comes up and jabs me with her elbow—I let her; if she wants to mess with my literary aura, fine. "Have you confessed on your blog that your mother-in-law cooks better than you?"
"My mother-in-law cooks better than any human, animal, or entity from beyond." I give her a kiss.
Nat’s mother, head of the world’s kitchen, plops another meatball onto my plate. I nod—gotta conserve energy for digestion.
Mikel, wearing the look of opening night, goes, "And what about the new houses? Let everybody know, just in case."
"I was this close to drawing blueprints, but laziness won," I tell him; my gift for boiling things down only goes so far, and that’s me being generous.
Sabina misses nothing, and from her throne as mother-grandmother-president, she finishes the play: "You’ll have to put it on the record for the whole world that Robin says 'Grandma.' Otherwise, this doesn’t even count."
"ALL CAPS and triple bold," I promise; the event deserves prime time.
Robin, now aware he’s the star, refuses to let go of his TEAM SABI bib, and I’d swear he’s got the branding down.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Irina step up and lay a hand on my shoulder.
Her way of saying I’m on her team. Makes me want to sign a twelve-season deal with HBO and ask for a poster.
When the living room fills and everyone’s shouting their show, their drama, their recipe, I edge half a step back and play mysterious.
In my head, Stephen King applauds and waves me through.
I showed up with my cheap backpack, and now I’m here, not hiding.
I even call a few shots, even if my hang-ups show.
I’ve learned to laugh with my mother-in-law, instead of praying she won’t invite me over. I also cheer for "Grandma" more than I cheer the end credits of any show that didn’t kill off someone I loved.
They say writing is letting go. Nat says it’s lying with method. I don’t know who’s right, but this morning she stole my pen and left a note in my notebook: "Don’t forget to eat." I guess that’s love, too.
Irina peeks in and calls me, voice low, steady. "Alaska."
"That’s me, boss."
I bite back a line I don’t dare say out loud. Holding my composure already costs me, and I’d rather my mysterious-writer reputation hold at least until dessert. But I repeat it to myself, with that mix of laughter and vertigo that’s been running through me forever.
Yes, I have a book in bookstores. But the important thing isn’t the signing or the photo. The important thing is what blood and paper reveal.
I don’t hide behind anyone anymore. Not behind fear, not behind my sisters, not behind Nat and all the love I feel for her.
Now I know who I am.
I am Alaska Popova.
The heiress.