Epilogue #2
I hope wherever you are, you've found people who love you the way you deserve. I hope you've learned that those words—efficient, controlled, practical—can mean something beautiful when they're about caring for yourself instead of diminishing yourself for others.
I'm proud of you for leaving. For choosing yourself. For being brave enough to walk away from people who should have loved you better.
I love you. I always have, even when I didn't show it. Even when I failed you in every way that mattered.
—Mom
When I fold the paper back up with trembling fingers, I have to concentrate very hard to pull in a full breath.
I don't know what I feel. Anger? Sadness?
Relief that she finally acknowledges what she did to me?
What she let happen? Everything tangles together until I can't separate one emotion from another.
I shove the letter into my bag and finish my shift on autopilot, going through the motions while my mind spins in circles.
When I get home, they're all in the kitchen, because of course they are.
This house is always full of noise and warmth and life.
Finn's making enchiladas, his specialty now, after I told him once, months ago, that they were my favorite.
He's gotten genuinely good at them, perfecting his very own seasoning blend.
Jonas is chopping vegetables with the precision of someone who's done it a thousand times, each slice perfectly uniform.
Lachlan and Adrian are setting the table, moving around each other with easy familiarity, that unspoken communication they've all developed after years together.
The house smells like home. Like warmth and safety. Like everything I never knew I needed.
"Hey," Finn says brightly, turning toward me with that grin that usually makes me smile. "How was…" He stops mid-sentence, his smile dropping, replaced by immediate concern. "What's wrong?"
The room goes still. All of them turn to look at me. I try to speak. But I can't. I just pull the letter out of my bag with shaking hands and hold it out.
Adrian moves first, like always. Picks up the letter carefully, like it might burn.
His eyes rove over it silently, his jaw tightening, a muscle jumping near his temple.
Then, he passes it to Lachlan without a word.
Then Jonas. Then Finn. No one speaks for a long moment.
The only sounds are the sizzle of meat on the stove and the rustle of paper.
Finally, Jonas looks up. His eyes are soft. Understanding. "How do you feel?"
"I don't know," I admit, my voice cracking. "I don't…I don't know how I'm supposed to feel."
"You don't have to know how you feel," Lachlan says quietly, setting the letter down with care. "You're allowed to feel all of it. Every contradictory emotion all at once."
My breath hitches, like I’m about to cry.
Jonas is there instantly, crossing the kitchen in three long strides and pulling me into his arms. I bury my face in his chest, breathing him in.
"She hurt me," I whisper against his shirt.
"And I'm still sad she wasn't the mother I needed—someone I could depend on, someone who loved me as her daughter instead of treating me like a pawn.
That makes me pathetic, doesn't it? Weak. "
"That's not weakness," Lachlan says, his voice steady and sure. "That's love. Even when it's complicated. Even when it hurts."
Adrian's hand settles on my back, large and warm and grounding. "You don't owe her anything. Not forgiveness. Not a response. Not a single thing. This is entirely your choice."
"But if you want to respond," Finn adds softly, unusually serious. "We'll be here for that too. Whatever you need. We're not going anywhere."
I nod against Jonas. Let them hold me, surrounded by their solid presence.
"Enchiladas first, though," Finn says, trying to lighten the mood. "Everything's better after enchiladas. That's science."
"That's not science," Adrian says, but there's no bite to his voice.
"Emotional science. It counts."
I huff out a weak laugh despite everything.
Finn steps closer, his hand finding my shoulder, squeezing gently. "You want to talk about it more? Or do you want food and a distraction?"
"Food sounds good," I manage.
"That's my girl," Finn says, squeezing once more before moving back to the stove.
Adrian moves to help him, taking over the vegetables from Jonas. "Sit," he says to me, gentle but firm. "We've got this."
Lachlan guides me to the table with a hand on the small of my back. He pulls out a chair for me and then sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. His hand finds mine under the table, warm and steady, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin.
"You're safe here," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
Jonas brings me water, cold from the fridge with crushed ice. He joins us on my other side, bracketing me in safety. "Drink," he says gently.
I do. The cool liquid helps, washing away the tightness in my throat.
Finn plates the enchiladas with exaggerated care, narrating each step like he's on a cooking show.
"And here we have the world-famous Finn enchiladas, prepared with love and an excessive amount of cheese, because everything's better with more cheese…
Also garnished with fresh cilantro that Jonas insisted on because apparently I'm not fancy enough… "
"Finn," Adrian says, carrying over salsa and sour cream, but there's warmth in his voice. Affection.
"What? I'm helping. This is my therapy technique." And he is helping. By the time the food is in front of me, steaming and smelling incredible, I'm smiling. Despite the letter burning a hole into the bottom of my bag. Despite the confusion still swirling in my chest.
We eat together around the kitchen table. They don't push me to talk. Don't ask invasive questions. Just exist with me. Around me. For me. This. This is what family should feel like.
After dinner, Lachlan and Jonas clear the plates, waving me off when I try to help. Adrian makes tea without asking, the chamomile kind I like, with honey. Finn sits beside me at the table, his leg pressed against mine, solid and present.
"You okay?" Jonas asks softly, returning from the kitchen.
I nod. "Yeah. I think so."
"You don't have to be," he says, sitting back down. "Not yet. Not for a while if that’s what you need."
"I know." I take a breath, wrapping my hands around the warm mug Adrian placed in front of me. "But I am. Because of you. All of you. I don't know where I'd be without…"
"Stop," Finn interrupts gently. "You don't have to thank us for loving you. That's not how this works."
My eyes burn. "I love you," I whisper. "All of you."
"We love you too," Jonas says, his voice warm.
"So much it's honestly embarrassing," Finn adds with a grin.
"Speak for yourself," Adrian says, but his hand finds my shoulder, squeezing.
"Always," Lachlan murmurs against my temple.
Later, as the sun starts to set, Finn jumps up with sudden energy. "Beach. We're going to the beach."
"It's almost dark," Adrian points out.
"Exactly. Sunset. Best time. Come on."
The sun sits low and heavy on the horizon, bleeding into the water in shades of amber and rose.
Not violent. Not dramatic. Just soft—the way light looks when it's tired, when it's ready to rest. The ocean catches it and holds it, turning the surface into something almost liquid gold, but muted.
Gentle. The kind of beauty that doesn't demand anything from you except to witness it.
Finn runs ahead and dives into the surf with a whoop of pure joy. "Come on! Water's perfect!"
"It's always perfect to you," Jonas calls after him, but he's smiling—that soft, fond smile he gets whenever Finn forgets to be anything but happy, carefree. "You'd swim in a snowstorm."
"Don't tempt me!"
I sit in the sand, still warm from the day's sun. They settle around me without discussion: Lachlan on my left, Adrian on my right, Jonas behind me so I can lean back against his chest. He wraps his arms around me, and I feel surrounded by safety.
"I think I might write her back," I say quietly, watching the waves. "Not now. Not yet. But eventually."
"That's brave," Lachlan says.
"Or stupid."
"No," Adrian says firmly. "Brave. You get to decide what closure looks like for you."
"But I'm glad she wrote," I admit, the words coming slowly. "Even if it hurts. At least I know she sees it now. What she did. What she didn't do. That matters, somehow."
I pause, watching the waves roll in. There's something else sitting in my chest—not about her, but about the absence of him. The silence where his voice used to be, demanding and cold.
"He hasn't reached out," I say, and it's not a question. It's just a fact I'm stating out loud. "My father. He won't. And I don't want him to."
"You don't have to explain that," Jonas says softly.
"I know. But I needed to say it." I lean back into him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my spine. "I'm done thinking about him. I'm done leaving space for him in my head. He made his choice, and I've made mine."
Adrian's hand finds mine, linking our fingers together. "You're allowed to grieve what you didn't get from her. And still be grateful for what you have now. Both things can be true."
I look at them, really look at them. My pack. My home. My family in all the ways that matter. "I am grateful," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. "For all of you. Every single day."
The ocean crashes steadily. Constant. Eternal.
I'm still healing. I probably always will be, but that's what trauma does. It leaves marks that fade but never fully disappear.
But I don't have to lick my wounds alone. Not anymore. Not ever again.
"We're grateful for you too," Jonas says, his arms tightening around me, his chin resting on top of my head.