EPILOGUE
“Oh God,” I whisper, bolts of shock pulsing through me as I jerk upright in the dim light of our bedroom.
Damp sheets cling to my skin.
“What’s wrong?” Travis murmurs, sleep thick in his voice. He props himself on one elbow and peers at me, concern widening his eyes.
“My water... I think it just broke.”
He’s out of bed in an instant, panic lacing every word. “What? What do you mean? What does this mean? Oh fuck.”
“It means,” I say, clutching my belly. “This isn’t a drill.”
“Fuck.” He scrambles for clothes, tossing aside shirts until he finds a pair of sweatpants. “It’s okay, baby, we’ll get you to the hospital, don’t even panic.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Travis, breathe. It only just started. This can go on for a long time. Just grab the bags, and we’ll go.”
His gaze flickers. “I should run next door, tell your mom. She’ll freak out if I don’t.”
“Okay, I will get changed. You go tell her,” I say, pushing to my feet, my stomach so tight it’s uncomfortable.
He nods, hair mussed, voice shaky. “Okay. I’ll get your mom. You get changed. Then, hospital.”
God, the poor man is a nervous wreck.
For someone who can sing in front of thousands of people, he isn’t coping with this small event.
Well, it’s not exactly small, but still.
I shuffle into the bathroom. Everything is wet.
I feel messy. I clean up and pull on a loose cotton dress and a pair of old panties that I have no doubt will not make it through the next few hours.
My feet shuffle downstairs, each step slow and careful.
At the front door, my mother, Chief, and Travis burst in like a hurricane.
Jesus. They’re acting like someone died.
“For Christ’s sake, you lot, I’m not having contractions yet!” I exclaim, laughing. “It’s a baby. Not the end of the world. Calm yourselves.”
My mother hurries to me. “Are you having contractions? How far apart? Should we call the hospital?”
“Mom,” I say, taking her hand and squeezing. “I’m okay. Only a few tight pains. Call them, see how long we should wait before going in. Tell them my water has broken.”
Chief hands her the phone. She disappears into the hallway, murmuring medical details.
I close my eyes, breathe slow, and sit down.
The first contraction begins, gripping my stomach with fierce intensity that has me crying out and clutching my belly.
“Scratch that, contractions,” I call between breaths.
“Fuck,” Travis barks, rushing over.
“It’s okay,” I assure him, as the contraction fades.
“They said time them,” Mom informs me, her eyes wide. “If they get to five minutes, we should go in.”
I nod.
Chief plops next to me on the couch, cracking open a beer and handing one to Travis.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I say, raising my brows. “Father, not every occasion calls for a beer.”
Chief laughs. “I’ll have one then, I’m stressed too, you know.”
I raise my brows. “Oh really?”
“Yeah really. You’re about to push a baby out of the body I helped create, that’s a big deal.”
“Please never say that again,” I groan, then look to Travis. “You good?”
“Yeah, just don’t know what to expect.”
“Blood, body fluids—God knows what else,” Chief answers with a grin. “It’s messy, son.”
“Chief!” Mom and I scold in unison.
He throws up a hand. “I’m joking. It’s beautiful. Mischief, you just slid on out. It wasn’t so bad.”
Mom gasps. “Slid out? Really, Caden. Slid?”
“Well, not slid exactly... more like pushed with the force of a cannonball.” Chief chuckles.
I shoot him a look. “Less detail, please.”
Chief roars with laughter. I thump him lightly on the chest. “You’re an ass.”
He doesn’t get to respond, because the next contraction hits. My back arches, breath whooshes out. I clutch at the couch cushion.
“Oh, that’s another one,” Mom says, hitting a stopwatch app on her phone.
She gently squeezes my shoulder. “That was six minutes, honey. I think this might be quicker than you think.”
Oh. Wonderful.
Turns out, she isn’t wrong. Within an hour, my contractions are intense and far closer together than I would have imagined in such a short time.
By the time we tumble into the car, I’m crying out in pain.
Every bump in the road feels like the baby might just come flying out.
Chief grips the steering wheel, muttering curses at every red light.
Mom strokes my leg, murmuring something I actually can’t make out.
Travis, though, is my anchor, murmuring, “You can do this. I got you, baby,” over and over.
When we arrive at the hospital, they take me straight through to a room.
Two nurses guide me onto a bed as I try not to buckle from contractions.
Mom and Chief wait outside, and Travis comes in as they check me out.
I don’t even feel the invasion of the midwife’s hand, I am in too much pain to care.
“Well, honey. The good news is, this is going to be quick. You’re nine centimeters and the baby is sitting wonderfully.”
Shit.
Another contraction hits, so hard I can’t answer.
“Breathe, baby,” Travis squeezes my hand, his voice calm and steady.
Thank God he stopped freaking out.
“Gas when you need it.”
The midwife presses something into my hand, and I bring it to my mouth and suck with everything I’ve got.
Moments later, the burn of the blissful gas pulses in my blood.
Colors blur. And for a brief second, I go on a wonderful little trip.
It doesn’t last long, and soon I am back, crying out in pain.
I beg Travis to get my mom, and he runs out and brings her in.
She doesn’t leave my side.
“It’s time to push.”
It seems like those words are fake, maybe not aimed at me, because there is no way I can push.
I am exhausted, the pain crippling, and they want me to push?
Turns out, your body doesn’t give you a choice and with the next contraction, I am lurching forward, curling over, screaming as I bear down without control.
An eternity passes in contractions coming one after another.
Push. Push.
The final stretch feels like the end of me.
Someone announces they have the head, and for me to push one more time.
The burn shooting up my groin is enough to knock me way the fuck out, but I keep going.
I just keep going. On the next contraction, I scream and push, and just like that.
.. the baby is here. A moment of silence follows, before the sharp crackle of a newborn cry fills the room.
“It’s a girl!” The midwife’s voice rings like a bell.
My mom wails, and Travis stands, tears running down his face as they wipe our baby off and place her on my chest. Dark hair crowns her skull. Her tiny fists clench and flex, her lips puckered. I bring a shaking hand to her back and stroke it. She is perfect. The most perfect thing I have ever seen.
“Hi,” I croak, between tears.
“Oh my God,” Mom whispers, tears streaming. “She’s beautiful.”
Travis presses himself close to my side, his hands trembling as he reaches out and strokes a finger over her cheek. His voice cracks. “Oh Jesus, she’s perfect.”
Something inside me—that jagged, broken piece—melds back together in that moment.
My heart fills and spills over.
Sunlight dances through the blinds as I lie in the soft afterglow of birth.
My vision is still hazy, but I see Travis in the corner, humming a gentle tune to our daughter.
The melody weaves through my bones, reminders of every fragile hope we carried.
He cradles her with such protection, broad arms shielding her tiny form.
His tattoos ripple beneath his T-shirt. My chest tightens with unspeakable joy.
“We did so good,” he whispers, voice thick. “Fuck, baby, she’s perfect. I know what I want to call her.”
My eyes widen. “You do?”
“Yeah. I want to call her Grace. She looks like a Grace.”
My heart swells. “Oh, Travis. Yes. That’s perfect.” The name feels like sunrise. “Grace Phoenix.”
He nods, brushing her tiny hand, already long-fingered like mine. “A little rocker,” he murmurs with a smile.
The door opens. My mother enters, face softened by maternal pride. Chief follows, hand pressed to his heart as if protecting something sacred. They pause, seeing their granddaughter in Travis’s arms.
“Holy shit,” Chief croaks, eyes glinting. He steps forward and strokes her tiny hand. His finger meets her fist, and she clamps down—an echo of the moment he first held me.
“Mischief,” he breathes. “She’s just like you, holding on with everything she’s got.”
Mom strokes Grace’s dark hair, voice trembling. “An angel. Their journey led you here, sweet girl.”
“Let me see this baby!”
The door swings open and Reagan rushes in, with Jasmine by her side. The two of them lay eyes on Grace and then swing to me. Both of them well with tears.
“Well fuck,” Reagan gasps, rushing over and throwing her arms around me. “I didn’t think I would ever look at a baby and fall in love instantly.”
“She’s perfect, Violet,” Jasmine whispers, stroking Grace’s cheek.
“Thank you,” I say. “I think so.”
“I need to breathe this little girl in,” Reagan whispers, walking over. “Gosh, I hope Harley is ready, I think I might need one.”
I laugh.
Travis hands Grace to Chief and I watch as they cradle her, passing her gently between them as if she’s a treasure. I lean into Travis when he joins me on the bed. “Look at them,” I breathe. “Our family.”
“Who’d have thought, Mischief? Through every storm, we found this.”
His words echo in the quiet room. I think of our late nights, our struggles, the tears that nearly broke us. None of it matters now. All the pain was just leading us to this.
“You know,” I say, snuggling into him. “I always knew we would get here, one way or another. I always believed in us.”
He presses a kiss to my head. “Thank fuck you never gave up.”
Around us, the room breathes with quiet joy.
In that golden dawn, nothing else exists but this fragile new life and the fierce love that binds us. This isn’t our ending, oh no, this is our epic beginning.