Epilogue
Heather
One Year Later
I wake to the sound of terrible singing.
My eyes open slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains in soft golden streaks, and for a moment I just lie there, listening.
Grayson’s voice drifts down the hallway from the kitchen, completely off-key, warbling through something that might be intended as a lullaby but sounds more like a wounded animal crying for help.
I press my hand to my chest and feel my heart squeeze.
One year. It’s been one year since Eleanor came into our lives, one year since that terrifying night when I brought Grayson home from his exile and our daughter decided she couldn’t wait another three weeks to meet us.
One year of sleepless nights and first smiles and learning how to be parents together, how to be partners again, how to rebuild something from ashes.
I push the covers back and pad barefoot down the hallway, following the sound of his voice. When I reach the kitchen doorway, I stop and lean against the frame, crossing my arms over my chest, and just watch them.
Grayson is dancing around the island with Eleanor cradled against his chest, swaying and spinning in slow circles while he serenades her with his awful singing.
Our daughter has a fistful of his collar stuffed into her mouth, drool soaking through the fabric, her eyes wide and fascinated by her father’s animated expressions.
She has his eyes, I think for the thousandth time.
Those same gray-blue eyes that looked at me with such devastation the night everything fell apart, now crinkled at the corners with pure joy as he gazes down at our daughter.
He still makes the coffee too strong every single morning.
He still leaves his socks scattered across the bedroom floor like he’s marking territory.
He still wakes up gasping sometimes, reaching for me in the dark, his hands shaking as they find my face, my shoulders, my heartbeat.
The nightmares come less often now, but they haven’t disappeared entirely.
He still dreams of blood on the lawn, of running toward me and never getting closer, of losing me in ways that make him wake up crying.
But he also writes letters to Eleanor every single week, sitting at the kitchen table after she’s gone to sleep, documenting who her mother is and who he’s trying to become.
He stands between me and his mother without a moment’s hesitation now, his spine steel, his voice unwavering.
He believes me about everything, always, without question.
Your word is my proof.
He means it. God, he means it.
“You’re going to damage her hearing,” I say from the doorway.
Grayson spins around, his whole face lighting up when he sees me, that ridiculous grin spreading across his features. Eleanor gurgles happily, still gnawing on his collar, completely unbothered by the sudden movement.
“She loves my singing,” he declares, bouncing her gently in his arms.
“She has no taste.” I push off from the doorframe and walk toward them, unable to keep the smile off my face. “She gets that from you.”
“Rude.” He closes the distance between us and presses a kiss to my forehead, lingering there for just a moment before carefully transferring our daughter into my arms. Eleanor immediately reaches for my face, her chubby fingers patting my cheek in a gesture that could be affection or could be an assessment of whether my skin is edible.
“Coffee’s ready. Fair warning, it’s strong. ”
“You always make it too strong.”
“One of my many charms.”
I shift Eleanor to my hip and look at him, really look at him, the way I’ve learned to do over this past year.
The dark circles under his eyes from late night feedings.
The small scar on his chin from when he tripped over a baby toy last month.
The way his whole body seems to lean toward me even when we’re standing still, like I’m magnetic north and he can’t help but orient himself in my direction.
Eleanor grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks, and I wince, gently untangling her fingers.
At one year old, she’s a chaos tornado in human form, all grabby hands and loud shrieks and an absolute determination to put everything she encounters directly into her mouth.
She has my stubbornness, Grayson always says.
I think she has his dramatic flair, the way she can go from laughing to crying to laughing again in the span of thirty seconds, experiencing every emotion at full volume.
I love her so much it feels like drowning sometimes. Like my chest can’t contain everything I feel for this tiny person we made together.
“Big day,” Grayson says, leaning back against the counter and watching us with soft eyes. “You ready?”
I take a breath, thinking about everything that waits for us in just a few hours. The backyard transformed. The people gathering. The vows we’ll speak to each other again, this time with eyes wide open, this time knowing exactly what we’re promising and what it will cost to keep those promises.
“I’m ready,” I say, and I mean it.
***
The vow renewal is in our backyard.
I planned every detail myself, and it looks nothing like the elaborate wedding we had the first time, that massive production with a designer dress and enough flowers to fill a greenhouse.
This is small. Intimate. Just the people who held us together through the worst year of our lives, gathered on the lawn where I once collapsed on my knees with a positive pregnancy test clutched in my shaking hands, believing my husband would never come home.
Chris and Julian arrived early, Julian immediately claiming Eleanor and bouncing her on his hip while making ridiculous faces that send her into fits of giggles. Chris has positioned himself near the flower arrangements and hasn’t stopped fussing with them since.
“Stop messing with the flowers,” I tell him, walking over with my arms crossed.
“They’re uneven.” He adjusts a peony, frowns, adjusts it again.
“They’re artistic.”
“They’re uneven and you know it.” He steps back, tilts his head, and reaches for the arrangement again. “The left side is at least two inches lower than the right.”
“Chris.” I put my hand on his arm, stilling his movements. “They’re perfect. You told me they were perfect three times already.”
He looks at me, and his eyes are suspiciously bright. “I just want everything to be right for you,” he says quietly. “You deserve for everything to be right.”
My throat tightens. I pull him into a hug, and he holds on for a long moment before pulling back and clearing his throat.
“Julian and I started the adoption process,” he says, almost shyly. “We got approved last month. There might be a baby by Christmas.”
“Chris.” I grab his hands, squeezing tight. “Are you serious? That’s incredible. Eleanor’s going to have a cousin?”
“Someone to terrorize, more like.” But he’s beaming, happiness radiating off him in waves. “We wanted to tell you today. Julian said it felt right, celebrating new beginnings together.”
I hug him again, tighter this time, blinking back tears.
When we separate, Julian appears at Chris’s side with Eleanor still in his arms, and the look that passes between them makes my heart ache in the best way.
They’ve been waiting for this for so long.
They’re going to be the most incredible parents.
“Don’t make her cry before the ceremony,” Julian chides Chris gently. “She’ll ruin her makeup.”
“Too late,” I laugh, dabbing at my eyes. “I’m going to be a mess all day anyway.”
I leave them to their flower-fussing and baby-wrangling and make my way across the lawn, stopping when I notice Marlene Merritt seated near the front row. She’s wearing a soft lavender dress, her silver hair elegantly styled, and when she catches my eye, she nods slowly.
That small gesture holds everything we don’t need to say out loud. She hasn’t spoken to Diane since the launch party a year ago, when she watched Grayson’s mother try to destroy me one final time. She chose me that day, chose truth over family loyalty, and she has never wavered in that choice.
I see you, her nod says. I see what you built. I’m proud of you.
I nod back, my throat too tight for words.
My parents are in the front row, my mother already dabbing at her eyes with a tissue while my father holds her hand with a stoic expression that isn’t fooling anyone. His eyes are misty too, I can tell, even from across the lawn.
“Mom’s been crying since she arrived,” Maya says, appearing at my elbow. “She started in the car, apparently. Dad had to pull over twice because he couldn’t see through her sobbing.”
“She’s dramatic.”
“You have to get it from somewhere.” Maya is grinning as she turns to face me, and the sight of her standing there in her maid of honor dress, the same deep burgundy she wore at my first wedding, makes something in my chest crack wide open. “Come on, let me fix your veil. It’s crooked.”
I let her fuss with the delicate fabric, her fingers gentle as she smooths it into place.
She’s the one who took me in when everything fell apart, who held me while I sobbed on her couch, who made me eat when I wanted to disappear.
She has never once said I told you so, never once reminded me that she had doubts about Grayson from the beginning.
“You look ridiculous,” she says, stepping back to examine her work.
“Thanks. I tried.”
“Seriously, though.” Her voice softens, and her eyes search my face.
I look at her, my sister, my rock, the person I can always count on to tell me the truth even when it hurts.
“Yes, of course I am happy,” I say. “Really, genuinely happy.”
“Good.” She grabs my hand and squeezes hard enough to hurt. “You deserve it, Heather. More than anyone I know. You deserve all of it.”
I can’t speak around the lump in my throat, so I just squeeze back.
***
Grayson is waiting at the makeshift altar when I start down the aisle.