Epilogue
Rowan
Sweet Child O’Mine by Guns N’ Roses
The contractions started at sunrise. At least I think they are contractions. They haven't been dramatic, just that deep, slow ache that feels like my body’s politely warning me it’s time.
But I ignore it. Because, honestly, who has time to be in labor when there are seeds to plant? I have things that have to get done before Chip gets here. He’s just going to have to wait.
The greenhouse smells like damp soil. Sunlight filters through the glass in streaks of gold, lighting up the rows of herbs I’ve been tending for weeks.
I’m hunched over a tray of seedlings, muttering to myself about moon cycles and germination rates, pretending like my insides aren’t twisting in rhythmic waves.
I’m fine. Totally fine. Except for the part where I have to stop every five minutes and brace a hand on the potting bench, breathing through the pain like some amateur in a prenatal yoga video.
And I'm not fine. I'm freaking the fuck out.
I am scared to be a mom, scared to go into labor.
So, if I just keep on planting my seeds, maybe I can trick my body into this not really happening.
“Rowan,” Ivy calls from the doorway, sounding suspiciously calm. “What… exactly are you doing?”
“Planting more seeds.” I wipe my forehead with my sleeve of my jacket that no longer zips thanks to my massive round belly. “I just need everything ready.”
Ivy blinks. “You’re in labor, Row.”
“No, I still have five more days,” I reassure her and myself.
“You’re contracting,” she corrects. “You’re also sweating and making weird noises.”
Remy appears behind her, looking concerned. “Where’s Finn?”
“He’s working. I don't want to bother him,” I say, scooping dirt over the seed tray. “And I’m not having a baby right now. Even if I were in labor, my book says early labor can take hours. Maybe even days. I have things to do first.”
Remy stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. “You’re gonna have that baby in this greenhouse if you keep this up.”
“I am not,” I shoot back.
Ivy looks at Remy with concern and back at me. “You’re seriously in so much denial right now.”
“It’s fine,” I say, because the alternative, acknowledging that this is actually happening terrifies me.
Remy mutters something about not being qualified nor wanting to deliver his brother's baby.
Another contraction hits hard, bending me in half.
I grip the edge of the potting bench and focus on breathing.
The baby’s moving lower, and everything feels hot, heavy, and unreal.
I try to keep planting seeds in the dirt through it, but my eyes are wide with the pain that shoots through my rock-hard stomach.
When it passes, I straighten, forcing a smile. “See? Fine. Totally fine.”
Remy looks ready to lose it. “Ivy, call Finn, your sisters, Donna, and your mom."
“Don’t you dare!” I shout.
She pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Rowan—”
“I said I’m fine.”
Remy rubs a hand down his face. “You women in this family are going to be the death of me.”
“I thought you liked strong women,” Ivy teases.
“Yeah,” he says. “Strong. Not crazy.”
“No,” I protest weakly. “My book says—”
“I don’t care what your book says,” he interrupts. “Your book also told you not to drink caffeine during pregnancy, and I’ve seen you down coffee like a trucker on a night shift.”
I glare at him. “Low blow. I mostly drank tea.”
Ivy looks up from her phone. “Finn's five minutes out.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Remy throws up his hands. “For God’s sake, woman!”
Ivy sits with me, helping me scoop dirt in and whatever else I tell her we need to do, probably hoping we can be done so we can get to the hospital. Really, I’m stalling.
Finn pulls up fast and brakes harder than usual, gravel crunching under the tires. The truck isn’t even fully stopped before he’s out the door and sprinting toward me.
He looks wild, not in a panicked way, but in a locked-in, nothing-will-stop-me way. His jaw is tight, like he’s holding himself together by sheer force. His eyes sweep over me, sharp and wide, taking in every wince, every breath, every tremble I can’t hide.
“Baby—” His voice breaks on the word, and he swallows hard, throat working like he’s trying to shove his own fear down before it touches me.
I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, that I can walk, that this contraction isn’t that bad—
Because as soon as he reaches me, another one hits.
He steps in close, brushing a shaking strand of hair off my face. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, but it sounds like he’s saying it to himself too. His hand shakes when he cups my cheek. Just barely. But I feel it.
And then in one smooth, determined motion, he scoops me up bridal-style, like I’m weightless. His arms are tight, protective, solid as the heartbeat I can feel pounding against my ribs from his chest.
I can see everything on him now: The fear in the tightness around his eyes. The awe in the way he keeps glancing down at me and the excitement trembling beneath it all—the kind that says holy shit, this is happening.
“Finn—” I gasp through the contraction.
He holds me closer, jaw clenched, breath uneven but steadying for me. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Row.”
He heads for the truck with long, urgent strides, tightening his grip every time I tense. And even though everything hurts and my heart is racing, I focus on the fierce determination etched across his face, on the way he looks like he’d carry me through fire if he had to.
And somehow…even in the pain, I feel safe. Because there’s no one I would ever want to do this with than him. And right now, Finn looks like a man who would fight the whole damn world just to get me and our baby safely to the other side of this.
“Finn, I can walk, you know.”
He smirks. “Nope. You’re gonna have this baby in a hospital, not in your greenhouse.”
“Thank God,” Remy mutters, following behind us.
“I have time!” I protest. “And I need to finish up that tray.”
“Nope,” Finn says. “We're going to the hospital.”
Junie’s waiting by the truck, holding her stuffed narwhal and looking way too excited for someone witnessing my unraveling.
“Is Aunt Rowan having the baby now?” she asks.
“No,” I say at the same time Finn says, “Yes.”
Junie’s grin widens. “Cool. Can I come?”
“Sure, June Bug,” Finn tells her. And I realize that he's shockingly calm.
“Why are you so calm?” I ask him.
“Because I know that you're going to be just fine. And we get to meet our baby boy very soon, so that is exciting. And I'm not calm, I'm excited.”
“You're freaking out,” Remy mumbles. “He always gets eerily calm when he freaks out.”
“Shut it,” Finn grumbles to Remy, who slides into the backseat with Ivy and Junie.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I mutter as Finn buckles me in. “I’m fine.”
He brushes my hair off my forehead. “You’re amazing, and you're in labor.”
“You guys don't know that for sure,” I say weakly, and then another contraction hits, sharp and deep.
I grip his hand so tight he winces as I moan.
Junie leans forward from the back seat. “Don’t you want me to meet my cousin?”
I try to smile through the pain and grit my teeth. “Of course I do, sweet girl.”
“Then stop being a silly goose and have him already.”
I burst out with a laugh, which turns into a groan. “I think I'm working on that.”
The drive to the hospital is a blur of contractions, annoying music, and Finn whispering encouragements that sound more like reassurance to himself.
“You’re doing so good, baby,” he says, voice rough. “You got this.”
“I hate you right now,” I pant. “You did this to me.”
“Understandable.” He nods.
“What did you do, Uncle Finn?” Junie asks.
Remy says, “Nothing. Aunt Rowan is just in a lot of pain.”
“Your kid is aggressive,” I moan.
Finn laughs softly. “He’s just excited to meet you.”
By the time we pull up to the hospital, the contractions are right on top of each other. Finn runs around to my side, lifting me out.
Inside, everything happens fast—nurses, paperwork, questions, monitors. I barely hear any of it. Finn never leaves my side. He’s holding my hand, brushing hair from my face, whispering how proud he is of me. I honestly couldn't have done any of it without him.
At some point, I start crying, but not from the pain—though there’s plenty of that—but from fear.
He leans close, forehead pressed to mine. “Hey. Look at me. I'm here.”
“I’m just pretending it’s not happening because I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says softly. “But it’s happening. You're already the best mom.”
I needed to hear that, needed the reassurance.
The next hour blurs into light and noise and pain and breath and Finn never lets go of me. He wipes my face with a cold cloth, whispers encouragements, cracks terrible jokes, kisses my knuckles, and is everything I could have ever hoped my partner would be.
When it’s finally over, I feel relief and an emotion I couldn't begin to describe other than just...motherhood. The feeling of your heart outside of your body just beating there in another human form that you already love with every piece of your soul.
Finn’s standing beside me, his hair a mess, his eyes red, his whole face soft in a way I’ve never seen and he’s holding a tiny bundle in his arms.
“Hey, Momma,” he murmurs.
I blink through happy tears as he places our baby in my arms.
He’s small, pink, and perfect. His little hands curl around my finger like it’s the only thing that exists and his eyes search until I swear they lock on mine. I fall in love harder than I ever thought possible.
“Hi, Chip,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Welcome to the world.”
I glance at Finn, tears blurring everything. “He’s perfect.”
He smiles, kissing my temple. “Yeah. He is.”
We sit there like that for a long time, the three of us wrapped in soft hospital light and something sacred.
The nurse finally asks if we're allowing visitors because I think she is legitimately afraid that they're going to break the door down from the lobby at some point. They're all chomping at the bit to meet Chip. We give the go ahead and wait for them all.
Junie comes in first, with Remy and Ivy behind her. “Where’s my cousin?” she says.
I lift Chip so she can see. “Right here.”
Her eyes go wide. “He’s so tiny!”
Finn laughs. “He’ll grow fast. You’ll have to teach him all your tricks.”
She nods solemnly. “Okay. But not the one with the bad tricks.”
“Good plan,” Ivy says, laughing.
Remy squeezes Finn’s shoulder, eyes shining. “He's adorable.”
I glance down at Chip’s dark hair and dimpled chin.
Finn chuckles softly. “He’s got your stubborn streak already. I can tell.”
“Good,” I whisper, stroking our son’s cheek. “Nothing wrong with being strong.”
Donna and Mom arrive next, crying and cooing, crowding around the bed. Mom kisses my forehead. “You did it, my girl.”
Donna’s wiping tears, staring at Chip like he’s a miracle. “Look at him. He’s perfect.”
Finn clears his throat, voice low. “He’s Pete’s namesake.”
Donna nods, tears spilling again. “Then he’s doubly perfect.”
That night, when everyone’s gone and it’s just us, the room is dim and quiet. Chip’s asleep in the bassinet beside the bed, making tiny noises in his sleep.
Finn stands at the window, looking out at Wisteria Cove.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He turns, smiling softly. “More than okay.”
I reach for his hand. “Come here.”
He crawls into the narrow hospital bed beside me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, and we watch our son sleep.
After a while, he says quietly, “You were amazing today.”
“I was a mess.”
“You are brave,” he says, pressing a kiss to my hair. “The strongest person I’ve ever known.”
I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “You were pretty brave and strong, too. I'm so glad I get to do this with you.”
He laughs quietly. “I was just trying to keep up with you.”
Outside, a light spring rain falls. Inside, our little family is safe, warm, and whole.
I breathe a sigh of relief into Finn’s chest, whispering, “He’s really here.”
He kisses my forehead. “Yeah, baby. He’s here. And now we're a family.”