Epilogue Two
JULIE
"Daddy! Daddy, look! I doing it!"
I'm standing at the kitchen counter seasoning steaks when I hear Rory's voice ring out across the backyard.
I look up just in time to see our three-year-old daughter yanking a handful of petunias out of one of the decorative pots on the deck and flinging them into the air with all the enthusiasm of a tiny, feral flower terrorist.
Ryan is crouched down next to the grill, changing out the tank, and when he turns and sees the carnage I watch his face go through about seventeen different emotions in the span of two seconds. Shock. Confusion. Horror. Pride. Resignation.
"That's... that's great, sweetheart," he calls back, standing up and brushing off his hands. "But, uh, maybe we should talk about the flower girl thing and what it means again."
I put the container of steak seasoning down and step out onto the deck, trying very hard not to laugh.
Rory is wearing her favorite dress—the one with the unicorns that she insists on wearing at least four times a week—and her blonde curls are escaping from the ponytail I put in this morning.
She's got dirt on her knees, a smudge of something on her cheek, and she's holding another fistful of flowers like she's about to commit horticultural homicide.
"I know what it means, Daddy! Auntie Jamie said I get to throw flowers!" Rory announces, beaming at Ryan. "So I practicing!"
She tosses the flowers toward him, giggling with glee as they land in front of him.
Ryan walks over them, his expression a perfect blend of patience and mild panic. "I know, baby. But the thing is, you're not supposed to pull the flowers out of the pots. You're supposed to?—"
"But how else do I get the flowers, Daddy?" Rory asks, looking genuinely confused.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Ryan catches my eye and gives me a look that says help me, but I can only shake my head because I am seconds away from laughing out loud, which will make it worse.
"Well," Ryan says slowly, kneeling down so he's at her level. "The flowers you throw at Auntie Jamie's wedding are going to be special flowers. They're already picked. You just... sprinkle them on the ground as you walk."
She frowns. "But these are special flowers. I pick them myself."
"You did. And they're very special. But maybe we should leave the ones in the pots alone, okay? They need to stay there so they can keep growing."
Our daughter considers this for a moment as she looks around at the flowers she threw "Oh. Okay." She nods as she wipes her dirt-covered hands on her dress. "Can I have the special wedding flowers now?"
Ryan glances at me again, and I can see him trying not to laugh. "Not yet, sweetheart. The wedding isn't on top of us yet.”
"But I need to practice, Daddy!"
"I know. I'll figure something out, okay?"
Rory nods, momentarily satisfied, and runs off to investigate something in the grass. Ryan stands up and walks over to me, shaking his head.
"She just destroyed that massive pot of flowers in less than a minute," he says.
"I saw."
"I don't know how to explain the concept of a flower girl to a three-year-old."
"Clearly."
He laughs and pulls me into his arms, kissing the top of my head. "This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?"
"Probably," I admit. "But it'll be a cute disaster."
"Jamie's going to kill me if Rory shows up to her wedding with a fistful of dirt and stems."
"Jamie will think it's hilarious. You know she will."
Ryan sighs, but he's smiling. "Yeah. You're right. She's a menace too. She encourages this craziness."
I laugh because it's true. Jamie adores Rory and all her silly behavior.
I lean into him, watching our little girl chase a butterfly across the yard.
She's so full of life, so fearless and funny and completely her own person.
And Ryan—God, Ryan is the best father I could have ever imagined.
He's patient and kind and endlessly creative when it comes to solving the daily crises of toddler life.
Watching him with her makes me fall in love with him all over again, every single day.
The next day, Ryan comes home with a bag from a craft store. "I have a solution," he announces proudly, setting the bag on the kitchen counter.
I'm sitting at the table with Rory, helping her color a picture of a unicorn on her little wipe off board. "A solution to what?"
"The flower girl situation."
Rory's head snaps up. "Flowers?"
Ryan grins and pulls a bag of silk flower petals out of the craft store bag. They're pink and white and look surprisingly realistic. "See, baby. These are special petals just for you to practice with. You can throw them as much as you want, over and over again."
She slides off her chair and runs over to inspect the petals. She picks one up, rubs it between her fingers, and frowns. "These aren't real," she says.
"No, but they're perfect for practicing. And you can use them over and over again."
Rory looks up at him, her little face serious. "But Daddy, these are bad for the 'viro mint."
Ryan blinks. "What?"
"The 'viro mint. You say we have to take care of the Earth. And fake flowers are bad. You said."
I press my hand to my mouth to keep from laughing. Ryan looks completely blindsided.
“I—you're right," he says slowly. "But these are just for practice. We're not going to throw them away. We'll keep them and reuse them."
Rory shakes her head. "But the bees don't like them."
"The bees?"
"The bees need real flowers, Daddy. You said so. Remember? When we planted the garden? You said we do real flowers because bees need food and fake flowers don't have that and that big flower farms are good. You said."
Ryan looks at me, his expression a mix of pride and exasperation. "She's three. How does she remember that?"
"She's your daughter," I say, grinning. "She remembers everything."
Rory crosses her arms, clearly waiting for Ryan to come up with a better solution. He sighs and kneels down in front of her.
"Okay. You're absolutely right. The bees do need real flowers. So how about this: I'll bring you real flower petals to practice with. Deal?"
Her face lights up. "Real ones?"
"Real ones. I promise."
"Thank you Daddy. You the best!" She throws her arms around his neck, and Ryan hugs her back, his eyes meeting mine over her shoulder.
I mouth you're so wrapped, and he just grins.
For the next few weeks, Ryan stops at the florist on his way home from work every two days and brings home bags of real flower petals.
Rory practices in the backyard, tossing them into the air and giggling as they flutter to the ground.
She takes her job very seriously, walking in slow, deliberate steps and making sure each handful is thrown with just the right amount of flair.
I watch from the kitchen window, laughing at how seriously Ryan takes it too.
He walks beside her, offering tips and encouragement, and I can see how much he loves this.
How much he loves her. It's one of those moments that makes my chest ache in the best way.
Because this—this life we've built together—is everything.
There is no alternate timeline where my life could have been better than this.
Ryan is wrapped around our daughter’s finger, and he doesn't even try to hide it.
He'll do anything to make her happy, to see her smile, to make sure she feels loved and safe and heard.
And watching him be her father is one of the greatest joys of my life.
Which is good, because I’m pregnant again.
After we put Rory to bed—after the third request for water, the second round of tucking in her stuffed animals, and the final insistence that we check under the bed for monsters—Ryan and I finally collapse onto our bed.
"She's asleep," Ryan says, his voice full of relief.
"For now," I say, laughing.
He rolls onto his side and pulls me close, his hand sliding up my back. "You know what I was thinking?"
"What?"
"That we're really good at this."
"At what? Bedtime negotiations?"
"At being parents. At being a team. At all of it."
I smile and kiss him softly. "We are pretty good at it."
"Pretty good? We're amazing."
"Okay, we're amazing."
He grins and kisses me again, deeper this time, and I feel the familiar warmth spread through me. We make love slowly, tenderly, the way we always do when we have the time and space to just be together. And when we're finished, lying tangled up in each other, I know it's time.
"Ryan," I say softly.
"Hmm?"
"I need to tell you something."
He props himself up on one elbow, his expression shifting to concern. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. It's just that we're going to need to get our newborn game on again."
He stares at me for a moment, his brain clearly trying to process what I just said. And then it clicks.
"Wait. Are you?—"
"I'm pregnant."
His eyes go wide, and for a second, he doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just stares at me like I've just told him we won the lottery.
And then he laughs. A loud, joyful, disbelieving laugh that makes my heart swell. "Are you serious?" he asks, his voice cracking.
"I'm serious."
"Yep. We're having another baby."
He pulls me into his arms, holding me so tight I can barely breathe, and I feel his whole body shaking with emotion. "Oh my God," he whispers. "Oh my God, Julie. This is—this is incredible."
"You're happy?"
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there are tears in his eyes. "Happy? I'm over the moon. I'm—I don't even have words. I'm just—" He kisses me, hard and desperate and full of love. "I love you so much. I love you and Rory and this baby and this life we've built. I love all of it."
I'm crying now too, and I laugh through the tears. "I love you too."
"Another baby," he says, his voice full of wonder. "Rory’s going to be a big sister."
"She is."
"She's going to be so bossy."
"She's going to be amazing."
He grins, and I can see the future written all over his face. The sleepless nights. The chaos. The laughter. The love. "We're doing this again," he says.
"We're doing this again."
"I can't wait."