Epilogue
Camille
Three Years Later
The twins are absolute terrors.
Emma has Nathan’s serious eyes and my stubborn chin, and at two years old, she already knows exactly what she wants and refuses to accept anything less.
Oliver is quieter, more watchful, content to observe his sister’s chaos from a safe distance before toddling over to participate in whatever destruction she’s orchestrating.
They are exhausting and perfect and the best thing that ever happened to us.
“Coffee’s ready,” Nathan calls from the kitchen. “And by ready, I mean I somehow managed to make it drinkable for once.”
“I’ll believe it when I taste it.”
I pad into the kitchen, where Nathan is attempting to wrangle both twins into their high chairs while simultaneously preventing Emma from throwing her sippy cup at her brother’s head.
“Mama!” Oliver spots me first, his face splitting into a grin that looks exactly like his father’s.
“Good morning, my love.” I scoop him up, pressing kisses to his cheeks until he giggles. “Were you being good for Daddy?”
“Define good,” Nathan says dryly. Emma has somehow gotten oatmeal in her hair. He has oatmeal on his shirt.
“The bar is low, Nathan. Very low.”
“In that case, they were spectacular.”
I laugh and pour myself a cup of coffee. True to his word, it’s actually drinkable. Miracles do happen.
***
Life, improbably, has become good.
My event planning business is the most sought-after in the city. I started over from scratch after the divorce and built something better than what I’d lost, something that’s mine, completely and utterly, with no husband’s opinions about whether it’s a “real career” or not.
Nathan made Chief of Surgery last year. He still works insane hours, but he’s learned to leave the hospital at the hospital. When he’s home, he’s present. Engaged. The kind of father I always wished I’d had.
We bought a house, not the one I shared with Jared, which I sold the moment the divorce was final. A new house. Our house. With a backyard for the twins to terrorize and a studio where I’ve started painting again.
“The Christmas cards came,” Nathan says, handing me a stack of envelopes. “You want me to start addressing them?”
“I’ll do it.”
This has become tradition. Every year, I send a photo card. Nathan and me. Now the twins too.
I send it to everyone who matters. Maya and her wife. Diane Whitmore, who still texts me occasionally to share news of particularly satisfying divorce victories. Nathan’s friends from the hospital. The clients who’ve become friends over the years.
And I send it to my parents. To Alexis.
Not to gloat. Not exactly.
Just to make sure they see it. Just to remind them of what they lost.
“Is that petty?” I asked Nathan the first year I did it.
“Probably.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Not even a little bit.” He’d kissed me then, long and thorough. “You’re allowed to be petty sometimes. It’s called being human.”
***
Jared is still in prison.
He served three years of his seven-year sentence, eligible for parole soon, though from what Diane tells me, his behavior hasn’t been exemplary. The golden boy couldn’t handle being reduced to just another inmate. He’s gotten into fights, lost privileges, added time to his sentence.
He sent me a letter once. An apology, or an attempt at one. I didn’t open it. Just fed it through the shredder and went on with my day.
Some doors, once closed, should stay that way.
Alexis is a single mother now, working retail, estranged from everyone. The baby’s father has never met his daughter. My parents tried to reconcile after the twins were born, a plea for access to grandchildren, but I declined. Politely. Firmly.
“They chose Alexis,” I told Nathan when he asked if I was sure. “They chose her over me, multiple times, in the ways that mattered. I can’t trust them with my children. I can’t trust them with my heart. Maybe that makes me unforgiving. But I’d rather be unforgiving than naive again.”
He didn’t argue. He understood.
***
The Christmas cards are addressed and stamped. The twins are down for their nap. Nathan is reading on the couch, and I settle beside him, tucking my feet under his thigh the way I always do.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks without looking up.
“Everything. Nothing. How weird it is that my life turned out this way.”
He sets down his book. “Weird how?”
“Happy.” The word still feels foreign sometimes. “I spent so many years being miserable and not even realizing it. Thinking that’s just what marriage was. What life was. Settling for less because I didn’t believe I deserved more.”
“And now?”
“Now I have everything.” I gesture around us, the house, the sleeping twins, him. “I have a career I love. Children I adore. A husband who looks at me like I hung the moon, even when I have spit-up in my hair and haven’t slept in three days.”
“Especially then.” He pulls me closer. “You’re beautiful when you’re exhausted and covered in baby fluids.”
“That’s disgusting and romantic in equal measure.”
“I contain multitudes.”
I laugh and burrow into his side, his warmth sinking all the way into my bones.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“For what?”
“For waiting. For showing up. For choosing me when I couldn’t choose myself.” I look up at him. “For making me believe that love could be different. Better. Real.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that.” He lifts my chin with one finger until I have to meet his eyes. “Loving you isn’t a sacrifice, Camille. It’s a privilege. The best thing I’ve ever done.”
“Even with the terrible coffee?”
“The coffee has character.”
“The coffee is a health hazard.”
He kisses me, soft and sweet, the kind of kiss that says I’m not going anywhere without using any words at all.
“I love you,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I love you too. More than I ever thought possible.”
Outside, snow begins to fall. Inside, the fire crackles. The twins sleep. The coffee maker sits ready for tomorrow’s inevitable disaster.
A life neither of us expected.
A life we chose anyway.
A life that rose from the ashes of betrayal and became something beautiful.
THE END