Epilogue
F ord
The swing set creaks in rhythm with Poppy’s laughter, bright and breathless as I push her higher, her sneakers kicking toward the crisp autumn sky.
The air smells like woodsmoke and fallen leaves, cool enough that I can see my breath when I laugh with her.
It’s that time of the year when the sun’s dropping low by dinner time, slipping through branches touched with amber and gold, casting the backyard in that fiery autumn haze that makes everything glow.
I look around, still surprised at how quickly Poppy has transformed everything in my life.
What used to be just a patch of grass, a fence, and a deck I never used has been taken over by chalk drawings smeared across the patio stones, daisies blooming along the fence line, and a pink soccer net in the middle of the lawn. It’s lived-in. It’s ours.
I glance toward the deck where Landyn is curled into one of the Adirondack chairs, white socks pulled up to her calves and a plaid blanket draped across her lap.
A steaming mug rests on the table beside her, the scent of coffee carried on the cool breeze.
She’s smiling—that soft, easy smile that still hits me square in the chest. I’ve had her back in my life for months now, and it still knocks me out cold.
I slow the swing, letting Poppy drag her toes along the grass to stop herself. She hops off and bolts across the yard with a squeal, not toward me, but toward the wiggling black-and-white puppy tumbling over its own paws to greet her.
“Pancake!” she calls, laughter spilling out of her as she drops to her knees. The pup’s ears flop as he bounds into her arms, tail wagging furiously. She scoops him up, his spotted fur pressed to her cheek, and he rewards her with an eager lick that makes her giggle even louder.
Poppy adores Stella, trails her everywhere like a shadow, but the older dog has always been mine.
This puppy is hers. Landyn thought it was spoiling her, that six years old was too young for the responsibility of a pet, but Poppy’s my girl.
If she wanted a black-and-white spotted puppy, she was going to have one.
So, here’s Pancake—ears too big for his head, clumsy paws tripping across the grass—already learning to curl up in Poppy’s lap like he was made for her.
Stella pretends she’s above it all, huffing when the puppy steals her toys or tumbles over her bed, but she’s softening. They’re working out their differences.
And when Poppy buries her giggles in Pancake’s fur, cheeks pink from the chill and joy, I know I’d do it a hundred times over just to see her like this.
“Okay, you two. Fun is over. I need hands in the kitchen.”
My brothers and Landyn’s parents are coming over tonight.
These dinners have become a regular thing; every Sunday, without fail, the house fills up with noise and food and way too many opinions.
That’s Landyn’s doing. She wants Poppy growing up surrounded by family, with the kind of traditions she still remembers, the kind I never had.
“You heard Mom. Let’s get Pancake into his bed.”
“Right this minute?” Poppy asks, clutching her dog to her chest and looking up at me with pleading eyes. “But, Dad, Pancake wants to play.”
The word still hits me as hard as it did the first time she said it—Dad.
The night after she and Landyn moved in with me it slipped it out so naturally, I almost missed it.
We were brushing our teeth side by side, her little face smeared with toothpaste, and when she asked me for a towel, it wasn’t Ford, it was Dad.
Just like she’d been saving it, waiting until she was sure it fit.
Now, I crouch down and smooth her hair away from her face. “Pancake can wait, kiddo. Your mom needs us.”
She nods, a little begrudgingly, and hands me the pup before slipping her hand into mine. Stella trots ahead, nails clicking on the deck. We follow Landyn inside, the three of us trailing her like gravity’s got a hold on us, like we belong nowhere else but right here.
Half an hour later, Landyn’s mom and dad are perched at the kitchen island, a spread of appetizers in front of them, while the smell of roasted garlic and herbs fills the air.
Her mom’s laughing around a bite of bruschetta, cheeks rosy and bright, healthier than I’ve seen her in a long time.
She looks like herself again, steady and strong.
The front door swings open and Noah walks in with a bouquet of flowers, Wes behind him carrying a bottle of wine. Not long after, Jesse appears, late as usual, scrolling on his phone and muttering something under his breath about “Financing breathing down my neck.”
I catch the way his mouth tilts, noticing it’s not his usual carefree, cocky smirk. He looks a little rattled, like someone just tossed him a challenge.
“You good?” I ask, one eyebrow raised, handing him a glass of wine.
He takes the glass from my hand with a smirk, which only makes me more suspicious.
Noah’s already got him pegged. “What’s with the face?”
Jesse waves his phone at me like it’s incriminating evidence. “You brought someone in to ‘assist’ me on the marketing launch.” He actually does air quotes. “Apparently I need supervision?”
I grin. “And?”
“And,” he says, dragging it out, “this woman is intolerable. Bossy. Been there for a couple of days and already thinks she knows my job better than I do.”
Noah laughs. “So… she’s better at your job and it’s pissing you off.”
“That’s not what I said,” Jesse snaps, though his sheepish grin betrays him. “She’s a firecracker with a clipboard. And she’s always in my space. She sits and makes notes—actual handwritten notes—about my campaigns. Like we’re in the ‘90s.”
“Sounds like you’ve met your match,” Noah says.
“She’s not my match. She’s a temporary headache,” Jesse insists, then mutters under his breath, “A beautiful, infuriating headache.”
I raise my eyebrows. I’m pretty sure the look on his face is the exact look I had when Landyn walked back into my life. Speaking of…she steps into the entry way, dress swaying around her legs, hair catching in the light. My girl. My fiancée.
A few weeks ago, I asked Landyn to marry me.
I knew I didn’t want to take her somewhere fancy.
That’s not us. I wanted it here, in the place I want us to build our life.
I roped Poppy in, and she had plenty of ideas as to how I should do it.
She wanted hundreds of fairy lights, so we strung them in the trees and wrapped them around the deck posts until the whole backyard looked like something out of a dream.
She picked daisies from the market, more than we could carry, and insisted we put them everywhere.
They lined the deck, we scattered them across the table, petals leading a path from the kitchen door to the yard.
She even made a little sign, which we propped beside the swing set: “Will You Marry Us?”
I can still see Landyn’s face when she walked into the yard that night.
Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes shining with tears before she even saw the ring.
I told her the truth—that I couldn’t imagine another day of my life without her in it, without the two of them in it.
Then I dropped to one knee while Poppy giggled beside me, holding the velvet box.
She said yes before I could even get the words out.
Now we have a wedding on the horizon. New Year’s Eve.
Landyn wanted a night that felt like fresh starts and second chances, and I wanted to give her the kind of celebration she deserved.
There’ll be fairy lights strung in the trees again, champagne flowing, and Poppy tossing white petals down the aisle before her mom walks to meet me.
I can already picture the countdown to midnight, and the kiss that seals forever.
Tonight’s dinner is loud in the best way, with my brothers trading jabs across the table, Landyn’s dad asking for the bruschetta recipe for the third time, her mom laughing so hard she’s wiping tears from her cheeks.
Poppy sits between Wes and Noah, chattering away, sneaking Stella scraps under the table while Pancake crashes at her feet.
It’s chaos, pure and simple, the kind I never knew I wanted.
The kind I’ll spend the rest of my life protecting.
When the dessert’s done and the last glass of wine is poured, hugs are passed around like they’re mandatory. One by one, family spills out into the cool night, voices carrying across the porch until the house finally softens into quiet again.
Upstairs, our bedroom is dim, lit only by the lamp on Landyn’s nightstand. She’s already curled beneath the quilt, hair spilling across the pillow. She tilts her head when I close the door behind me, and the look in her eyes damn near buckles me.
“Successful night,” she murmurs, voice soft from wine and warmth.
I strip off my shirt so I’m in only my boxer briefs and climb in beside her, pulling her against me. “Every night’s a successful night with you here.”
She laughs, the sound muffled against my chest. “You’re getting sappy.”
“Maybe,” I admit, brushing a kiss against her hair.
“But it’s true. This—” I sweep a hand toward the door, to the memory of her parents and my brothers around the dinner table, the dogs sprawled out on the rug, our daughter fast asleep down the hall, “this is everything. I didn’t think I’d ever have it.
Then you came back, and you gave it to me. ”
Her hand finds mine under the covers. She lifts her head, eyes shining in the low light, and I see every promise I’ve ever wanted reflected back at me.
“I love you, Ford,” she whispers.
I press my forehead to hers, letting the words sink in, letting them fill the spaces I thought would always be empty. “I love you too. Always have, always will. I’ve been yours since the day I met you. ”
She kisses me slowly, deeply, and when we finally pull apart, I realize the truth I’ve been chasing my whole damn life: She is my purpose. Landyn and Poppy. They are the reason for every breath I take.
This is it. The life I didn’t think I’d ever have. The family I didn’t know I needed. The woman who’s always been it for me.
This is home. This is everything.
There are a hundred reasons we shouldn’t have worked. A thousand ways it could’ve gone wrong.
But in the end?
There was only one deal-breaker.
A life without her.
And that’s a deal I’ll never take.
The End