EPILOGUE
I DO HAVE SUPERSPERM, THOUGH
brAD
“Come on, Blaze, give me one more,” I coax.
Shaking her head from side to side, she cries, “I can't! Please, no more.”
“You can, love. And you will. Just one more, give it to me.” I brush her sweaty hair back from her flushed face.
If looks could kill, I'd have been dead hours ago.
Throwing daggers with her eyes, Shari seethes, “This is your fault!
One surprise baby at forty wasn't enough for you, noooooo, you had to be an overachiever and send your supersperm for another mission!
I'm forty-fucking-three, Brad! Way too old to be—aaarrgghhh! Fuck!”
“You are not too old for anything, Blaze.” I do have supersperm, though. I rub my thumb over her wedding ring and it still makes me as proud and possessive as it did the day I convinced this incredible woman to marry me. “Now, one more push, Blaze. Just one more. You've got this, and I've got you.”
Still glaring at me, Shari takes a deep breath and roars her way through the pain. She's never looked more beautiful. Or more mine.
“Congratulations Mum and Dad! We have a beautiful, bouncing baby boy!”
I can't help but laugh as I cradle our little man.
“What? What's funny? Is he weird looking?” Shari asks, half dazed.
“No, love,” I'm still smiling as I reply, “he just looks like a stern teacher who's losing patience with his unruly class.” His little face is scrunched up, and he genuinely looks like he's glaring with the cutest little pout to his mouth.
As I hand our serious-faced boy to Shari, my heart expands so painfully I think it might burst.
“Hi, Georgie-Porgie,” Shari whispers, stroking his tiny little head, and the frown on his face melts away as he stares at his mum. Me too, buddy. Me too.
“Georgie?” Dr Subramanium asks as she finishes the final stitches on my poor wife's perineum.
“George Noah Quinlan. Both our fathers' middle names,” Shari beams as a single tear rolls down her cheek, never breaking her stare from our boy's face.
Our parents are all in the waiting room, dying to meet their second grandbaby, but mostly, I can't wait to introduce him to his big sister in the morning. Lizzie has been beside herself with excitement at the idea of having a baby brother.
I have to swallow around the rugby ball in my throat as I'm completely overwhelmed with joy and protectiveness, thinking about our little family unit. I'm so thankful Shari finally let go of her qualms about our age gap so we could finally, truly be together.
Age has always just been a number to me, but I know numbers can be important too.
For example:
One – the number of women I've ever loved romantically.
Two – the number of precious little lives we've created together.
Three – the number of years I've been desperately in love with Shari.
Four – the number of months we've been married.
And five – the size of our family now (including Pickles, because Shari would never forgive me if I didn't include him.)
Our age gap, though? That's one number that is, and always will be, completely irrelevant.