Epilogue
Thanksgiving Day
Cal pulled the rental car to a stop in front of the house and killed the ignition.
The red brick across the first story, the white siding above, the barn-red shutters bracketing each window—it was all the same.
Even the basketball hoop still clung to the garage, tilted left, net long gone.
He hadn’t touched a ball since the day Elena died.
The sight of it twisted his stomach, a sharp reminder of everything he’d lost and every reason he’d stayed away.
The trees were taller now, the hedges thicker, the front door painted red instead of black. But mostly it was the same as the day he left at eighteen. The last time he’d seen the house. The last time he’d seen his family.
Io’s hand settled on his thigh, warm and steady. “We can leave if you’re not ready.”
God, it was tempting. They could find a restaurant, have dinner, head back to the hotel.
Pretend he hadn’t traveled all the way here to face the ghosts he’d been outrunning for twelve years.
But he hadn’t become Special Forces by walking away from hard things.
He covered her hand with his, squeezed. “If I leave now, who knows if I’ll ever have the courage to try again. I just need a minute.”
“They’ll be happy to see you, Cal. They never blamed you. That’s what you told me.”
“They didn’t. But, Thing? I haven’t talked to them in twelve years. What if they’ve decided since then it was my fault?”
Her thumb stroked his hand, steady and sure, grounding him in a way nothing else could. “I don’t think that happened.”
Her calmness helped him rein in the anxiety clawing at his ribs. If the worst happened, he had Io. He had more family now—her sister, her brother-in-law. He was going to be an uncle. He wasn’t alone anymore. Squaring his shoulders, he reached for the door. “Let’s do this.”
Io waited for him at the hood of the car, her breath clouding in the cold air. She reached for his hand, and he held on like it was the only thing keeping him upright as they walked up the driveway. He needed another deep breath before he could ring the bell.
It took a moment to open.
The quizzical who’s visiting? expression melted into stunned disbelief.
“Ma, you shouldn’t open the door without checking who’s outside first.” His voice came out thick. Damn it, even her familiar disregard for safety felt like home.
“Cal?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She lunged forward, cupped his cheeks in her hands. “Cal! Let me look at you!”
Her touch undid him. Twelve years of distance, of convincing himself he didn’t deserve this, collapsed under the warmth in her eyes.
He’d braced for anger, for disappointment, for the cold edge of blame he’d carried in his own head for so long.
Instead, he found love—fierce, immediate, unchanged—and it broke something open inside him.
She’d changed. More salt than pepper in her hair now, lines etched deep from years he hadn’t been here to witness. But the love in her brown eyes was exactly the same.
She wrapped her arms around him, clinging tight, and Cal let go of Io to return the hug.
His throat burned, his chest ached. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing in the scent of home—detergent, winter air, something warm and familiar he hadn’t realized he’d been starving for.
He felt the shaking that meant tears and rubbed her back, his own voice raw.
“I’m sorry, Ma. I shouldn’t have stayed away. ”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” Her words were muffled against his chest, but she didn’t let go. Not for a long time. When she finally broke the embrace, she wiped her cheeks with both hands. “It’s freezing out here. Come in.”
As she stepped aside, Cal rested his hand on Io’s back and guided her inside. Only then did his mom notice her. She wiped her cheeks again, studying Io with a mother’s quick, assessing warmth.
Cal closed the door. His mom’s gaze swung back to him. “Did you forget how to make introductions?”
His lips curved. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her scolding. “Ma, this is Io. My wife.”
Her eyes widened, and for a second she just stared at him, mouth parting as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath. “Wife?” The word came out stunned, disbelieving. “Io?”
Oh. Right. To him, being married was just life—twelve years of growing up, moving forward. To her, he was still the boy who’d left at eighteen. He hadn’t expected the word to hit her that hard. Maybe he should have. The silence stretched, heavy and uncertain, until Io stepped forward.
“It’s short for Iona,” Io said, offering her hand for a brief clasp. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Baggnell. Cal’s told me a lot about you.”
“I wish I could say the same.” His mom shot him a pointed look before turning back to Io. “Iona. It’s a pretty name for a pretty girl.”
“Thank you,” Io said.
“Take off your coats. I’ll hang them up.”
“I can do that,” Cal said quickly. The silence pressed in around him, knotting his stomach. Had something happened to his dad? He shrugged out of his jacket, took Io’s, opened the closet. “The house is pretty quiet.”
His mom’s laugh eased the worry tightening his chest. “Everyone’s out on the deck. We’re grilling the turkey for the first time and your dad and brothers all have opinions.”
Closing the closet door, Cal turned back toward her. His mom’s smile faded. “What’s that on your arm?”
He glanced down. His sweater had slipped, revealing ink. “Um…”
She pushed up his sleeve before he could stop her. “Callum Andrew! You have a tattoo. A big one.”
Io leaned in, voice conspiratorial. “That one stops at his elbow. The other one goes to the top of his shoulder.”
“Other one?”
For a moment, Cal wasn’t sure if he should apologize or make excuses. Then Io’s mischievous grin caught him, and he couldn’t help grinning back. “You’re not supposed to rat me out. You’re supposed to help me pacify my mother. That’s what a good wife would do.”
“Too bad you got me instead.”
Cal laughed, the sound thick but real. He tugged her against him, arm firm around her waist. “Nah, Thing. I got lucky when I found you, and I know it.”
That’s when it hit him—why the laugh felt different here. In this house, with his mom watching, it carried weight. It echoed in rooms that hadn’t heard him laugh since he was sixteen.
Since before Elena died.
Io sat beside Cal at the long dining room table.
Two extra place settings had been added quickly and efficiently, his family immediately making room for them without hesitation.
Her husband’s thigh pressed against hers, his hand brushing over her leg now and then as if he needed the reassurance of contact.
Despite the warm, unconditional welcome, Cal was holding back—shoulders a little too tight, smile a little too careful—not quite ready to trust that everything wouldn’t be yanked away.
The table was crowded with dishes. Turkey carved and steaming, bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing heavy with sage, cranberry sauce glistening under the light. The clatter of serving spoons and the scrape of chairs filled the silence that words couldn’t quite bridge.
Io reached for the basket of rolls, passing them down, her smile easy and warm. “These smell amazing,” she said, breaking the hush. “Did you make them, Mrs. Baggnell?”
“Please, call me Pam. You’re part of our family now. And yes, I make the rolls from scratch. You can’t get the same flavor from store-bought.”
“That’s a great tradition. And lots of work.”
“It’s worth it.” Pam leaned forward, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “The bread machine helps. What sort of traditions does your family have?”
It was a natural question, but Io’s heart froze for a second. “My family isn’t big on tradition.” Not big on getting together at all, but she left that unsaid. Cal squeezed her thigh under the table, the message clear and steady. He loved her. He was here.
They shared a glance, and Io curved her lips, letting him know she was okay.
“What do you do, Iona?” Pam asked.
Io understood why she was the center of attention. Cal had retreated into himself, and his mom probably didn’t want to push him. Io was the safer option. “I’m a photojournalist for a corporate magazine.” She answered the question Pam really wanted to ask. “Cal is a medic for his Green Beret team.”
The sounds around the table ceased as everyone froze, gaping at Cal.
“You always were an overachiever,” Shane teased. His gaze flicked to Io. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to have these two as your older brothers?”
“It gives you something to strive for,” Ben shot back.
Ignoring him, Shane continued, “Teachers always saying why can’t you be more like your brothers. Coaches expecting me to hit a baseball as hard as Cal, or pitch like Ben. And do I get any sympathy?”
“My guess is no,” Io said.
Spreading his hands dramatically, Shane declared, “None. Zero. I was doomed from the start.”
“You survived just fine,” Cal said. “You charmed your way out of more trouble than Ben and I ever could.”
“He’s the baby,” Ben added. “We had to be responsible, and when Shane messed up, Cal and I were in trouble because we were older and should know better.”
“Hey—” Shane began.
“Boys, stop picking on each other,” Pam scolded. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“Yes, Ma,” all three said in unison, gazes dropping to their plates.
Io bit back a laugh. Pam shook her head, but Io caught the curve of her lips, the relief in her eyes.
This was normal between the brothers—the teasing, the jockeying, the instant obedience when their mother stepped in—and while she wasn’t about to let them needle each other endlessly, she was clearly overjoyed to see it happen. To see her sons together again.
The meal moved like clockwork, bowls passed hand to hand, plates filling. The feeling of walking on eggshells eased, the tension in the room loosening with every shared joke and familiar rhythm.
Pam turned her attention to Cal. “How long have you and Iona been married?”