Epilogue
Ten years later
Griffin
Ten years.
It sounds like a lot when people say it out loud, but when I look at Piper, it feels like ten minutes.
We’re in the wings of the same concert hall where I first watched her walk onto a stage and take the air out of my lungs. Only this time, she’s not trembling. She’s not searching the crowd for courage. She doesn’t need it.
She stands tall and sure.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching her talk to the conductor.
Her hair is pinned back, her dress black and simple, her violin held lightly at her side.
She laughs at something the cellist says, and the sound hits me in the chest the same way it did the first time she ever laughed near me.
You’d think I’d get used to it.
I haven’t.
“Dad,” a small voice says, tugging at my sleeve.
I look down into a pair of gray-blue eyes that are so much like mine it’s almost unfair to her. Piper always hoped our kids would get her eyes. Instead, our daughter looks like my clone with her mother’s hair and stubbornness.
“What’s up, bug?”
She clutches her tiny violin case. “Is it time?”
“Almost.” I crouch down and fix the bow where it’s sticking out of her case. “You nervous?”
She shakes her head, chin up. She’s a brave and determined little thing. Pipes to her core.
“Mom said nervous means you care.”
“She’s right.”
“Are you nervous?”
I nod. “Every time she plays. I guess it’s every time you play now, too.”
She thinks about that. “Do you stop being nervous when she finishes?”
“No,” I say, smiling. “That part’s permanent.”
She grins like she understands, even if she doesn’t yet. She will.
“You promise you brought Gerald?”
I peek around the curtains to make sure before I take her little shoulders in my hands. “Your brother’s got him. He’s sitting in the front row with Grandma. See?”
She blows out a breath when she sees the judgmental-eyed little fucker. The penguin has worn down over the years, but he’s stuck around.
She looks past me. “Mom saw us.”
Piper’s already walking over, dress brushing her knees, eyes warm when they land on me, always on me, even after ten years. She presses a kiss to our daughter’s head and another to my mouth.
It still feels like something that rewires me every time.
“You two surviving back here?” she asks.
“Barely,” I say.
Our daughter rolls her eyes—Piper’s eye roll, not mine. “Dad’s being dramatic.”
“Of course he is.” Piper smooths her dress.
The stage manager calls out, “Five minutes!”
Piper straightens, her professional switch flipping on. It still amazes me. She used to shrink under her own shadow. Now she runs entire rooms with a nod.
Our daughter steps forward, adjusting her glasses. “Mom? Will you stand where I can see you?”
Piper’s face softens in that way she saves only for our kids. “Always.”
The little one turns to me. “And you don’t move either.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She trots toward the wings where the youth orchestra is gathering. She’s second violin today. It’s something she earned, not something Piper pushed her toward. That’s always been important to her.
When she’s out of earshot, Piper exhales slowly.
I step behind her, hands settling on her waist. “You okay?”
She nods, leaning back into me. “She’s so brave.”
“She gets that from you.”
“No,” she says gently. “I had to learn it. She was born with it. That’s all you.”
She folds her arms over mine, and we stand there with the sounds of tuning instruments filling the hall.
She’s quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Do you remember the night I played here? The first time?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I thought that night was the end of one life and the beginning of another.”
“It was.”
She looks over her shoulder, eyes steady. “I didn’t know then that you were going to be in every part of the next one.”
“You didn’t have to know,” I tell her. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”
She squeezes my hand and presses a kiss to my jaw.
Halfway through, the stage manager waves Piper forward.
She kisses me one last time. “Love you.”
“I love you, too, baby.”
Then she walks toward the stage with the same quiet power she fought hard to earn.
I watch her take her place beside our daughter.
The lights dim.
The conductor lifts his baton.
The audience hushes.
And then, two bows rise in perfect unison.
One belongs to the girl who rebuilt her life. The other to the girl who’s never known anything but love.
My chest pulls tight in that painful-good way.
I’ve spent ten years loving Piper.
Ten years of watching her become more than she ever believed she could be.
Ten years of learning her, holding her, choosing her.
Eight of those years, she’s been my wife.
Six of them, she’s been the most amazing mother to our two kids.
And here’s the truth: every version of her has been my favorite.
But this one—this woman who stands tall, heart open, daughter beside her—this one is the one who saved me right back.
I slip into my seat in the front row. Donna smiles at me, full of pride, as my son climbs onto my lap.
Piper finds me instantly.
She always does.
I give her the same nod I’ve given her since the first time I ever saw her lift a violin.
I’m here.
I’m proud.
I’m yours.
The End.