Epilogue
Gabriel
Three years later.
Three years ago, those thirteen minutes would have bothered me.
Three years ago, I would have called ahead, adjusted the schedule, and ensured everything remained on track.
Three years ago, I was an idiot.
I grabbed my briefcase from the passenger seat and headed toward the front door, already bracing myself for what I knew I’d find inside.
Total pandemonium.
Beautiful, chaotic, perfect pandemonium.
The sound hit me before I even opened the door. A high-pitched shriek of laughter, followed by the thunder of small feet and the unmistakable bark of a dog who had no concept of his own size.
I pushed the door open.
“DADDY’S home!” Megan’s voice rang out from somewhere in the living room. “HIDE!”
She streaked past me—nine years old now, all long limbs and wild hair, her face flushed with laughter. Behind her, two small tornadoes in dinosaur pajamas gave chase, their chubby legs pumping as fast as they could manage.
“Get her!” one of them yelled.
The other one giggled but followed closely behind.
They were identical. Completely, perfectly identical. I still mixed them up sometimes, though I’d never admit it out loud. Behind them, adding to the chaos, was approximately eighty pounds of German Shepherd puppy who had not yet realized he was no longer small enough to fit under the coffee table.
He tried anyway.
The coffee table tipped.
A bowl of what looked like goldfish crackers went flying.
“BOYS!” Megan shrieked, diving behind the couch. “The dragon got the treasure!”
“NOOOOO!” they wailed in unison.
The puppy, whose name was officially “Sir Barkington,” but whom everyone called “Bark,” barked enthusiastically and knocked over a tower of blocks that had been precariously stacked in the corner.
I stood in the doorway, briefcase in hand, and took it all in.
The living room looked like a toy store had exploded. There were blocks everywhere, a half-constructed blanket fort draped over the armchair, what appeared to be an entire container of crayons scattered across the coffee table, and—Is that glitter?
Yes.
Yes, that was definitely glitter.
On the couch. On the floor. Somehow on the ceiling.
How does glitter get on the ceiling?
I didn’t ask anymore. I’d learned that some questions were better left unanswered.
“Cate?” I called, setting my briefcase down and stepping over a stuffed dinosaur.
No answer.
Just more shrieking from the living room as Megan emerged from behind the couch, wielding what looked like a pool noodle.
“The princess has a sword!” she announced dramatically.
“Not fair!” one of the twins protested.
“Life’s not fair, Henry!” she shot back.
“I not Henry. I’m Harrison!”
“You’re both Henry-Harrison to me!”
I left them to their battle and headed toward the kitchen, following the smell that had been teasing me since I walked in.
Something with garlic. And butter. And—Is that rosemary?
My stomach growled.
I found her exactly where I expected to: standing at the stove, one hand stirring something in a large pot, the other resting on her very pregnant belly.
Seven months along now. With our fourth child.
A girl this time, according to the ultrasound.
Cate had cried for twenty minutes when we found out, then immediately started planning the nursery, then cried again because she couldn’t decide between three different shades of lavender.
I’d learned to just hand her tissues and agree with whatever she decided.
She was humming something off-key, as always, and completely oblivious to the chaos happening fifteen feet away in the living room.
Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, secured with what looked like a pencil.
She was wearing one of my old surgical shirts, the ones I’d retired years ago, and a pair of leggings that had some kind of cartoon character on them.
She looked beautiful.
She looked perfect.
She looked like everything I never knew I needed.
“Hi,” I said.
She jumped, spinning around with the wooden spoon still in her hand.
“Oh my God, Gabriel!” She pressed her free hand to her chest. “You scared me! I didn’t hear you come in, which is ridiculous because the door is literally right there and also the children are screaming, so obviously I should have heard something, but I was thinking about whether I added enough salt to the risotto, and then I started wondering if we have enough parmesan because I could have sworn we had a full container, but then I remembered Harrison or maybe it was Henry was eating it straight out of the container yesterday, which is disgusting but also kind of impressive because that’s a lot of cheese for a toddler, and—”
I crossed the kitchen in three strides and kissed her.
She made a small sound of surprise, then melted into me, her free hand coming up to grip my shirt. When I pulled back, she was flushed and slightly breathless.
“Hi,” I said again.
“Hi,” she whispered back, her eyes soft.
From the living room came a crash, followed by Bark’s enthusiastic barking and Megan yelling, “IT’S FINE! EVERYTHING’S FINE! THE LAMP WAS UGLY ANYWAY!”
Cate winced. “I should probably...”
“They’re fine,” I said, my hand settling over hers on her belly. “What are you making?”
“Mushroom risotto. And roasted chicken. And those little potatoes you like with the rosemary. And I made brownies earlier, but the boys found them and ate half the pan, so I made another batch, but then I ate three of those because the baby wanted chocolate, and—” She paused, her eyes widening.
“Oh God, I’m doing it again. The rambling thing. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love the rambling thing.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
It was true.
Three years ago, I would have found it exhausting. Overwhelming. A disruption to the careful order I’d built my life around.
Three years ago, I’d thought structure was everything. Control was everything. Maintaining boundaries and schedules and routines was the only way to survive.
Three years ago, I’d been living half a life and didn’t even know it.
Then Cate had walked through my door—late, flustered, and turned my entire world upside down.
She’d broken my daughter’s arm.
She’d made dinner by candlelight and looked at me like I was something more than just a surgeon, just a father, just a man going through the motions.
She’d married me in a courthouse with Fitz as a witness and made it real.
She’d loved my daughter like she was her own.
She’d given me two more children—chaos incarnate in matching dinosaur pajamas—and was about to give me a third.
She’d filled my house with glitter and laughter and noise and life.
She was crazy as hell. A bit neurotic. Prone to spiraling and stress-baking and saying things like “towel situation” in moments of crisis.
She was my everything.
The love of my life.
Mine.
“Gabriel?” Cate’s voice pulled me back. “You okay? You’re looking at me weird.”
“I’m looking at you like I love you,” I said.
Her smile was radiant. “Oh. Well. In that case, carry on.”
From the living room: “DAD! BARK ATE MY DINOSAUR!”
“MINE!” one of the boys wailed.
“BOYS, sharing is caring!”
Cate sighed. “I should—”
“I’ll handle it,” I said, pressing one more kiss to her temple. “You finish dinner.”
“Are you sure? Because last time you ‘handled it,’ they convinced you to build a catapult out of popsicle sticks and launched grapes at the ceiling.”
“That was one time.”
“There are still grape stains up there.”
“I’ll repaint eventually.”
She laughed that bright, unrestrained laugh that still made my chest tight and turned back to the stove.
I headed toward the living room, where World War III was apparently underway.
Megan had the twins cornered behind the couch. Bark was barking at a throw pillow. There was glitter on everything.
It was chaos.
It was madness.
It was perfect.
“Alright,” I said, clapping my hands once. “Who wants to help me set the table?”
Three faces turned toward me.
“Can we use the fancy plates?” Megan asked. “The ones with the flowers?”
“Those are for special occasions.”
“This is a special occasion! Daddy’s home!”
Something in my chest cracked open.
Daddy’s home.
Three years ago, coming home had meant silence.
Order. A carefully maintained routine that kept everything in its place.
Now it meant noise and chaos and children who thought my arrival was worth celebrating with fancy plates.
Now it meant a wife who stress-baked and rambled and loved me despite—or maybe because of—all my sharp edges.
Now it meant a life I never planned for.
A life I wouldn’t trade for anything.
“Alright,” I said, scooping up Harrison, or possibly Henry, and settling him on my hip. “Fancy plates it is.”
Megan cheered as the other twin grabbed my free hand. Bark barked and knocked over another block tower.
From the kitchen, I heard Cate humming again, off-key and perfect.
And I thought: This.
This is everything.
Not the operating room. Not the accolades, or the publications, or the carefully structured life I’d built.
This.
This beautiful, chaotic, and at times neurotic, glitter-covered disaster.
This family.
This love.
This life.
I’d spent years thinking I had it all figured out.
Turned out I’d been waiting for a rambling, neurotic, stress-baking woman to show me what it really meant to live. And I’d spend the rest of my life grateful she’d walked through my door.
Even if she occasionally still dreamed of her shirtless, knife-wielding ninja.
THE END