Epilogue
Magnus
I love the feeling of Trent threading his fingers into mine, and a smile splits my lips as he leans over, breathing in the scent from my hair and kissing the crown of my head.
It’s obnoxiously loud in the auditorium where we’re about to watch our daughters walk the stage to get their high school diplomas, and he needs a moment to ground himself.
My parents pass us as we let them scoot by to sit further down the aisle with Trent’s family.
After Magnus the Fifth and Venus the First graduate, our family will be hosting a graduation party in our backyard for the girls and some of their closest friends and family.
Yes, we named the first twin born in the tradition of the Lancaster line, and my mother reeked of satisfaction when we did it. Feminists that we are, we didn’t let a little thing like the baby’s sex change the traditions of our family naming strategy.
“Did you remember to wrap the tickets?” my husband asks, mostly to distract himself from the noise.
The older he’s gotten the more he finds loud environments uncomfortable.
He says it’s because he’s gotten used to how quiet our lives have been over the years.
Even when the twins were babies, they were quiet and content to play together, so we never really experienced the hyperactive noise that Trent’s sister’s kids brought to her life when they were very young.
I love how staid my husband is, even if it means he hates being in large crowds.
“They’re in the gift bag on the kitchen table,” I reassure him.
“Do you think it’s still a good idea to send them to Brazil for the summer?” he asks, still nervous about letting our girls out of sight for too long.
“Amani will be there, and so will a whole group of other students. They have a solid safety plan, and they won’t be there alone. Our girls will be fine,” I promise.
We’re surprising them with a trip to Brazil to work with the most famous archeologist I know for the summer, and since the girls have been attending dinners with Amani Mustafa since they were just a week old, I’m not at all worried about this.
Trent, on the other hand, is struggling with letting his babies go.
“I know. I’m just nervous,” he grumbles beside me.
I reassure him with a squeeze of my hand as the lights in the auditorium dim and the principal of the high school comes to the stage to commence the ceremony.
***
After the party, after the girls have gone off to have a sleepover with their friends, after all of our guests have left, I find Trent in our bedroom, smirking at his phone as he reclines on our bed.
We’ve just replaced the mattress for the fourth time since we bought the bedframe back when we were newlyweds; and I’m pleased to see him relaxing on it comfortably.
Some of his middle-age aches were borne from the injuries he received in college, and the new mattress has helped with the pain more than even I thought it would.
“I’ll have to thank Ven for the recommendation for the mattress,” I say, pushing our bedroom door shut.
Trent pats the bed beside me. “Later,” he says and pulls me into a cuddle before showing me the video playing on his phone.
I laugh at the view of us in our twenties revealing our relationship status to our subscribers.
I’d sat on Trent’s dick for the entire reveal, and then bounced like my life depended on it until we both shot off like it was our jobs.
“We were so young,” I hum, watching with a growing sense of satisfaction that thirty years of marriage to this man has been so supremely successful.
We spent our twenties growing our careers, and our thirties so stable we decided to have kids, then our forties bringing those kids up, and we’re about to spend our fifties as empty nesters.
“It’s been a beautiful life,” Trent sighs, turning to catch my lips the way he always has.
“It still is. Our roots are not done growing,” I reply when he pulls back.
He smiles, setting his phone aside and crawling on top of me. “Thank you for letting me have a life full of deeply dug roots, baby. I love you.”
I smile up at my husband, spreading my legs to invite him in for more. “You wanna show me how much you love me?”
Trent chuckles, deep and low, flicking his salt and pepper hair out of his face. “Baby, if I haven’t shown you every day for the last thirty years how much I love you, I’ll be disappointed that I’m not communicating effectively with the love of my life.”
I push my hips up to meet his, and rub my burgeoning erection against the one behind his pants. “I have short term amnesia. You have to show me every day or I forget,” I tease.
Trent coos playfully, giving me a mock-sympathetic frown. “Oh, you poor thing. I won’t let you forget how much you’re loved. In fact, I think we should record this so you can see it every day if you wish.”
I grin at my exhibitionist husband, reaching for the remote that starts the record function on our mounted cameras. “That’s an excellent idea, husband. That will definitely help me to remember how much you love me.”
Trent answers me with a growl, tearing off my shirt, kissing me like we’re newlyweds, and making love to me like he can’t get enough of me. Thirty years and counting. This is our happily ever after.