Epilogue
Seamus - One Year later
Family dinner is always organized chaos.
Christmas at the McGloughlin household is a sensory overload of the highest order.
Especially now the clan is expanding exponentially.
Elias, snug against my chest in his wrap, lets out a long, suspiciously timed sigh. It sounds judgmental, honestly. Which is fair. His entire family is here, both my side and Marcella’s—and, as the newest member, he’s the center of attention.
He best get used to it. This is what his life is going to look like—too many people talking at once, someone always trying to feed him, and cousins who will absolutely teach him how to swear in Gaelic, English, and Spanish before preschool.
The front door’s wide open. No one’s bothered to close it in hours.
Liam and Padraig are staging a Nerf war in the hallway.
Connor’s got Teagan tugging on his shirt, wearing glitter antlers and no socks, like a feral elf.
Cillian’s in the kitchen with his new wife, pretending to help while sneaking bites off a jamón platter Rosa told him not to touch.
Marcella is perched next to Ronni on the window seat, glasses of Rioja in one hand.
Her other hand rests absently over her belly like she hasn’t stopped protecting the space—even though he’s here in the world now.
Her hair is loose. Her cheeks are flushed.
She’s barefoot, glowing, and impossibly beautiful.
When she looks up and catches my eye, she mouths, “You okay?”
I nod, shifting Elias against my chest silently communicating, More than .
We got married last February at City Hall.
The two of us and our parents and Elias in the form of a bump.
Marcella wore white. No veil. Just her, wrapped in something soft and strong and stunning.
There was no pressure. Her hand in mine and dinner with the entire clan at The Metropolitan Grill afterward.
For our honeymoon, we disappeared for a long weekend on Whidbey Island—three nights of stormy windows, warm tea, and her falling asleep on my chest while Elias shifted inside her like he had opinions.
Our son arrived in August. Seven pounds. Long fingers. All eyes.
Connor and Ronni brought him a miniature leather jacket with LTZ embroidered on the back.
Liam and Padraig wrote him a lullaby. Cillian built his crib and set up his entire nursery.
Brennan sent us a baby monitor with more features than my research lab, and Marcella’s family loaded us up with every gadget known to man.
Marcella’s mom and Ma now operate as a unit. They take turns showing up to “help” and have somehow merged into a two-woman holiday-planning task force no one dares interrupt. They cook, clean, fuss, and argue over nap schedules like it’s a team sport.
We need the help. I’m halfway through R6, one last long obstacle before this doctor life becomes mine on my own terms. The hours are still brutal.
When I get home at 2 a.m., exhausted and wired and thinking I’ve got nothing left to give, I find Marcella asleep with Elias curled against her chest—I realize I’m the luckiest man on earth.
Marcella’s back to work—General Counsel at the Rainier Foundation. It’s different from the world she used to command. No courtroom battles. No cross-examinations. Strategy. Operations. Leadership. She’s thriving. She still runs on ambition and caffeine, with a softness now. A steadiness.
She’s letting herself have joy without guilt.
Like today. Joy personified.
The entire house smells like someone opened a spice market in the middle of a bakery—Ma’s brown-butter carrots and soda bread, Rosa’s arroz con pollo , garlic and saffron and thyme all layered on top of the familiar tang of something delicious roasting in the oven.
I’m wedged between Brennan and my dad, one leg propped up on the hearth, Elias’s pacifier tucked in my hoodie pocket like a secret weapon. He’ll need it soon.
Marcella crosses the room, acutely aware of our son getting fussy. She leans over the back of the couch and brushes her lips over Elias’s head. “I’m going to feed him before dinner.”
“Want me to help?” I ask as I hand him up to her.
She shakes her head. “Nah, we’ve got a system.”
Of course they do.
I watch her leave the room, soft and sure, Elias pressed to her shoulder. The others barely notice her departure, already rolling into a debate over which family member first tried to mix cinnamon into Ma’s roast potatoes. (It was Padraig. It was definitely Padraig.)
The music’s low in the background, something jazzy and instrumental, loud enough to catch when the voices dip.
The table’s already set—Ma’s best white tablecloth, Rosa’s insistence on proper chargers.
It’s longer than usual this year. Two tables pushed together.
Lucas brought folding chairs from the restaurant.
There’s a bench against the far wall with a pillow from the living room thrown on top. It works.
Ma appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “Dinner’s ready.”
People move. Voices rise. The familiar swell of chairs scraping and silverware shifting and holiday dinner settling into motion. The dining room hums like a living thing.
Rosa and Ma flow in and out of the kitchen, each trip bringing a new wave of color, scent, and barely disguised competitiveness. There’s a carved lamb roast with a glistening crust, flanked by a golden-crackled leg of jamón ibérico .
Saffron rice glows under curls of seared lemon, tucked beside bowls of garlicky gambas and slow-roasted patatas bravas . A massive paella pan holds pride of place, scattered with mussels and bright-red peppers.
Next to it, Ma’s creamy colcannon is mounded high beside steaming trays of roasted parsnips and honeyed carrots with fresh thyme.
There’s brown bread still warm from the oven, sliced thick and set out with curls of Kerrygold butter, and a dish of cranberry-orange compote she insists “rounds things out.”
Croquetas —crispy, molten, perfect—are lined up like soldiers next to a basket of sausage rolls wrapped in puff pastry so flaky the edges shatter when you breathe near them.
Dishes fill the table. Hands pass plates. Laughter starts to echo over the clatter of silverware. Marcella reenters as everyone begins to sit, Elias already dozing again, seemingly completely uninterested in the fanfare.
She settles beside me, Elias tucked snug in his wrap against her chest, his tiny hand peeking out near her collarbone. She exhales as she eases into the chair, eyes scanning the table, already full of conversation.
“You made me a plate?” She spots it in front of her.
“Of course.” I slide it closer. “You didn’t think I’d let you go hungry, did you?”
Her lips curve. “How very husbandly of you.”
“Careful.” I smirk. “I might start setting expectations.”
She takes a bite, then rests her elbow on the table and leans in slightly, voice low, meant only for me.
“This is good,” she says. “All of it.”
“Yeah.” I rest my hand on her thigh under the table. “It really is.”
It takes a while to settle—like it always does when this many people are packed around one table. Someone forgets their drink, someone else needs a spoon, a napkin falls, a chair creaks. It’s all part of the music.
I glance around the table—Connor and Ronni wrangling their three kids, Lucas and Brennan in deep debate about AI, Rafael and my da are deep into a conversation about woodworking, something about restoring an old wine rack.
Liam corrects Padraig’s retelling of how their band almost opened for U2.
Astrid and Ivy lament not being able to eat sushi.
Cillian sits listening, quietly content, next to his wife.
Ma and Rosa watch everything. Not judging—keeping track. Like the whole thing only works because they see all the pieces and let them move.
I catch Marcella watching, too. The way her eyes scan the table, her fingers gently brushing the edge of her water glass, Elias’s sleepy weight resting on her shoulder. Her father laughs at something Ma says, and Lucas leans in to correct whatever it was.
She glows.
Not in a glowy-mom way people always reduce her to now. In the way she’s always glowed when she’s right where she’s supposed to be—even if it took her longer to believe the space existed.
“You did this, you know.” She leans toward me.
I tilt my head. “Did what?”
“This.” She gestures loosely around the table. “You made this life real for me. If you’d never convinced me to come back to the abandoned hospital room…”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t. I merely look at her, take in the curve of her mouth, the light in her eyes, the soft curl of Elias’s hand peeking out of the blanket tucked against her chest—and I let myself feel it.
All of it.
The fullness. The noise. The warmth.
The knowing there’s no going back.
Dessert appears with no warning. Aromas bloom from the kitchen and Rosa steps back in with a tray of Basque cheesecake, a bowl of sherry whipped cream, and a look saying, don’t you dare ask for substitutions .
Ma brings in her annual apple tart, with a lattice top and crust so flaky it’s almost delicate.
“Small pieces,” Rosa says as she starts slicing. “A suggestion, not a request.”
“Too late,” Lucas calls, already helping himself to a giant helping.
I cut a piece of each for Marcella and I to share. Elias stirs in Marcella’s arms but doesn’t wake.
Marcella smiles and kisses the top of his head. “If he sleeps through dessert, he’s officially invited back next year.”
Eventually, people start peeling away from the table—some toward the living room, some toward the kitchen to “help” clean up (which really means snacking until Ma kicks them out). Rosa collects plates with military efficiency. Connor’s kids run laps around the coffee table.
I slip outside.
For a breath.
The porch light spills onto the steps. It’s cold—sharp and clean—quiet in a way the inside never is. My lungs stretch. My thoughts ease. I hear the door creak behind me. Marcella.
She wraps my coat around her shoulders and steps onto the porch beside me, Elias tucked against her chest, his breath fogging lightly against the fleece of the wrap. The cold is sharp, not cruel.
“I’ve been thinking about next year,” she says softly.
I glance over.
“I rescheduled the egg retrieval. January.”
I nod once. “Okay. Seems about right.”
“I need to know you’re still in this.” She shifts her weight, watching me. “Do you still want more kids? It’ll get harder.”
I reach over and brush my thumb over my son’s tiny forehead. “I’m going to finish this thing, Residency. Research. All of it.”
“I know.”
“I want to keep going. Past R7. Full-time.” I continue, “I want to stay in it. Teach. Build something lasting.”
“I figured.” She leans against me. “It’s why I’m asking.”
“None of it will mean anything without you—and our children. Retrieve the eggs. We’re adding to our family one way or another, there’s no question in my mind.” I pull her against me.
We stand there for a long moment—our son sleeping between us, my parents’ house glowing behind us, the quiet finally catching up.
We’re about to head back inside when we hear footsteps.
Not rushed. Just steady. Confident, even. All the way up the stone steps like they’ve done it a hundred times before.
Marcella shifts beside me and she appears.
Stevie.
Bounding toward the door, her coat unzipped, hair swept up, face bare. Her expression is unreadable. Her presence is too familiar to be strange. She’s been in and out of this house since we were kids. Padraig’s best friend. His once-girlfriend. The one we all thought would always be around.
I smile without thinking. “Stevie?”
“Hi, Shaymie.” Stevie stops at the foot of the porch.
“It’s good to see you.” I open the front door. “Come in—it’s freezing.”
She follows Marcella and I into the warmth.
It all happens in a blur.
We’re halfway inside, coats halfway off, when Padraig looks up from the kitchen doorway—and freezes.
Everyone else keeps talking.
He doesn’t move.
Not one step.
Stevie pauses near the entry, suddenly still. Like she feels what’s coming before anyone else notices.
Padraig’s voice cuts through the noise, loud and sharp. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The room stops breathing.
Connor glances between them. Liam’s brows go up.
Marcella straightens beside me. “What—?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head.
Stevie doesn’t flinch. She meets his eyes and says, steadily, “I know.”
The air fractures with something unfinished.
Everyone watches Stevie. No one says a word.
Padraig’s footsteps vanish down the hallway, but the wreckage stays behind.
Suddenly, we’re not celebrating anything anymore.
A story for another day…
Want one more moment with Seamus and Marcella? Read the bonus scene here .
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Padraig let Stevie go once. But this time? He’ll burn it all down to keep her.