Epilogue
It wasn’t perfect.
The aisle was a little crooked. The folding chairs didn’t match. One of Fiona’s students had spilled juice on the guestbook table, and Russell kept sneaking extra deviled eggs before the ceremony even started.
But none of that mattered.
The backyard behind Fiona’s parents’ house was strung with white lights and tissue paper lanterns, homemade by her fifth graders.
A line of mason jars filled with wildflowers marked the aisle.
The arch was made from two borrowed trellises and an old quilt her grandmother had sewn, now hanging like a banner behind them.
Dean stood at the front, heart thudding in his chest, the same way it had the first time.
The guests quieted.
And then there she was.
Fiona stepped out from the back porch in a soft, ivory dress that swayed around her ankles. Her curls were pinned with tiny daisies. No veil. No frills. Just her. Real and radiant and his.
Dean swore the breath left his body.
June let out a little gasp. Emma sniffed. Marcy grinned so hard she probably gave herself a headache.
Dean didn’t even pretend to stay composed. His whole face crumpled. Fiona caught his eye and smiled, and that was it—he was gone.
He was floating and anchored all at once. The kind of raw joy that made his ribs feel like they couldn’t hold the force of it.
He didn’t deserve it. But she chose him anyway.
Dean wasn’t just in love with her. He was rooted in her. He was rebuilt because of her.
Fiona’s dad walked her down the makeshift aisle, slow and steady. When she reached Dean, she slipped her hand into his like it had always belonged there.
The officiant—Marcy, with a legal ordination certificate printed out just last week—cleared her throat.
“Alright, lovebirds. Let’s keep it together.”
Laughter rippled through the guests.
They didn’t read vows from notecards. They didn’t try to be poetic.
Dean looked at her and said, “I will never forget how lucky I am to be loved by you.”
Fiona looked back and said, “I won’t make you a better man. You’re already doing that yourself. I’m just here to cheer you on.”
They kissed before Marcy even finished saying you may kiss the bride.
Later, Fiona stood barefoot on the grass, dancing with a lemonade in hand while her students swirled around her like fireflies. Dean sat on the porch steps, shoes off, tie loosened, a plate of cake crumbs beside him.
He watched her.
This woman. His wife.
His again, and still.
Not because of a curated life or a picture-perfect timeline.
Because she let him try again.
Because she said yes.
From the yard, Fiona caught his gaze and mouthed, What?
Dean smiled.
Everything, he thought.
Then he got up, walked barefoot into the grass, and kissed his wife under the string lights—exactly the way he should’ve the first time.
And exactly the way he always would from now on.