Epilogue #4
Everything she sketched had purpose—stretch stitching, magnetic closures, seated-fit designs. Nothing that looked "special needs." Everything looked fly .
Dessign had dreams too—real ones, including her name on the tags, her vision on the runways.
I wanted to see that happen for her as well.
But the truth was, we were all in this together: a girl with Tourette’s and a woman in a wheelchair, building something that had never been done for people like us.
This project means everything to us. This isn’t just fashion; it’s identity. I may be stitched up and healing, but I’m not out. I’ll be back, and this time, the runway would move for us.
A little update from everyone else. Imanio’s and Dessign’s dad is somewhere out here living like the sun don’t set.
His Caribbean girlfriend keeps him smiling, and I can’t even be mad at it.
Right now he’s just having fun, letting the breeze carry him wherever it wants.
Marriage? He says that’s off the table forever…
but life has a funny way of changing a person’s “never.” Time will tell.
Now, Giselle… that’s another story. Unlike Imanio, who was done with her—at least for now—Dessign had a tiny soft spot for their mom.
So she gave her an ultimatum: a decent, paid-off house…
but one located in the hood to remind her that pride won’t pay the bills and actions carry consequences.
Or… she could figure it out on her own. For once, Giselle swallowed that pride of hers and chose the house.
It’s funny how life will strip a person down until humility is their only option. One minute you’re standing on top of the world, and the next you’re learning how to survive on ground you once swore you’d never touch again.
And for Giselle, that cut deeper than most—because she was the type to look down on people in the hood, even her own family, forgetting she once lived there herself.
Dessign knew that, which is exactly why she planted her back in the same soil she swore she’d outgrown.
It wasn’t about punishment; it was about perspective.
Pride had blinded Giselle for so long that the only way to strip it away was to sit her in the middle of the very community she judged, to remind her that the hood doesn’t care about your last name, your titles, or your past money; it will treat you like everybody else.
Giselle has even picked up a new hobby—painting. Brushes and canvases keep her busy now, and she actually makes a little money from it. Maybe art was always buried under those diamonds and designer bags.
She’s tried apologizing to me since, but words can’t erase poison once it’s spilled. Too much was said, and I’m not the type to pretend the scars don’t itch. If we rebuild anything, it’ll take time—and even then, I don’t know if it’ll ever be what she hopes.
Some doors don’t close all the way, but they don’t swing back open easy either.
As for her Imanio and Giselle? They haven’t spoken since that night at the hotel. If there’s one thing about my husband, it’s that his silence speaks louder than his rage.
People think holding a grudge is weakness, but sometimes it’s just knowing peace costs too much to keep buying the same pain.
Later that night, it was just me, Imanio, and our newest addition—our son, nestled peacefully in my arms. The soft hum of the quietness wrapped around us, with only the sound of gentle breathing breaking the stillness.
Everyone else was asleep, lost in their dreams, while we soaked in this beautiful moment.
I leaned back into the pillows and watched the rise and fall of our son’s tiny chest. His little belly was full and round from the breastmilk.
His tiny fists were balled up tightly, and his lips were pursed in his sleep, as if he had important business to tend to in his dreams—a touch of humor in his innocent repose.
Imanio sat quietly beside me, a steady presence, watching with a look of wonder that mirrored my own disbelief. The kind of peace we were experiencing felt earned, a hard-won victory against the odds.
Then, just as the room returned to its soft tranquility, a small, fragile sound bubbled out of me—unexpected and vulnerable.
“Somebody tell the baby I ain’t done healing yet!” I said, half joking, half serious.
I braced myself for our son’s reaction, expecting him to flinch at the loudness of my voice, but he simply smiled in his sleep. That simple act made my heart swell with happiness.
Imanio reached out gently, brushing a stray curl away from my face.
“He’s used to you already.”
I felt the familiar swell of tears behind my eyes, threatening to spill over.
“Who would’ve ever thought that me getting k-kidnapped would lead to this?” I murmured, a mixture of incredulity and gratitude woven into my words.
“Damn sure not me,” Imanio commented with a crooked grin. “Truth be told, I just needed you quiet ‘cause you saw too much. Now look at me—changing diapers with the witness.”
“Our l-love proves that God has a sense of humor… pairing a killer with his witness.”
“Yeah… well, most witnesses get silenced. You the only one who turned a life sentence into a love sentence.”
I tilted my head, a smile tugging at my lips. “Guess I’m evidence you couldn’t throw away.”
Imanio chuckled low. Then, with a tender gesture, he dropped his forehead to mine, his hand gently tracing small, warm circles over my stomach.
“Best evidence I ever kept.”
My heart fluttered at the intimacy of the moment.
“Seriously, I prayed for this … even when I didn’t believe it could happen… especially with someone like you,” I confessed.
“Funny thing is… I never prayed for much before you. But somehow, God still answered a prayer I didn’t know how to make, and he gave me you .
We built something real, baby; something that can’t be undone.
I love you, Naji,” Imanio expressed, his voice low and filled with sincerity as he leaned in to kiss me—slow, sweet, full of memory and promise.
“I love you more,” I whispered, a smile breaking on my lips.
I then looked up toward the ceiling, as if the heavens themselves might be listening to our exchange.
There was a time when simply going outside felt like an insurmountable challenge, a time when I couldn’t bear to look at my own reflection because of the anger and pain etched into my features and a time my body, with its every tic, twitch, and outburst, had felt like a traitor, and I truly believed that no one could love someone as broken as me.
I had lived through everything people said would ruin me—trauma, fear, uncertainty—and somehow, against all odds, I still found myself holding evidence of love, pure joy and resilience in my arms.
Sometimes, the story doesn’t begin with love; sometimes it starts with survival, and against all odds, it still ends in forever.