Epilogue
Iris
It’s going to be a good day. I’m not being dramatic, it’s just a fact.
It’s going to be a good day because today is a Collin day and Collin days are statistically wonderful.
Every single one of them. Every single time.
The thought makes me smile as I adjust my rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Jamie in his booster seat.
He’s making his two favorite toy cars chase each other across the narrow armrest, complete with elaborate crash sound effects that squish his lips together and crinkle his little nose.
Today marks the beginning of Owen’s custody week, which means after I drop Jamie off, I’ll have seven uninterrupted days with Collin.
Seven days of sleeping in, conversations that don’t revolve around cartoon characters, and feeling more like a woman instead of the mother of a little chaos goblin.
“Are you excited to see Dad this week?” I ask, watching his little face brighten in the mirror.
“Yeah! We’re gonna build with my Legos,” Jamie says, then adds without missing a beat, “Will Collin be here when I get back?”
“He’ll be here,” I promise, and the certainty in my own voice still surprises me sometimes.
Three months since the competition ended, and I’m still adjusting to having him around.
The last few months have been a whirlwind in the best possible way.
Seattle’s March weather has been typical.
Gray skies punctuated by brief, brilliant moments of sunshine, cherry blossoms starting to brave the lingering chill.
There’s something hopeful about early spring, the way life insists on pushing through even when winter hasn’t quite released its grip.
Coaching inquiries have been pouring in, exactly what I’d hoped for when I first signed up for the show.
The exposure has opened doors I’d only dreamed of.
But the work I’m most proud of has been with the shelter.
The prize money from Ice Breakers went straight to the Riverside Women’s Center, funding their free counseling program.
Every Tuesday, I sit in a circle with women whose stories sound familiar in different ways.
We drink bad coffee from Styrofoam cups and talk about the small moments that made us realize something wasn’t right—the way a partner’s mood could shift a whole room, the gradual erosion of friendships, the slow realization that walking on eggshells had become our way of living.
Some of them remind me of myself from years ago, that particular brand of fragility that comes from surviving what you thought might break you.
I tell them what I wish someone had told me: that emotional and mental abuse is still abuse, that they deserve more than the careful navigation of someone else’s moods, that love shouldn’t require them to make themselves smaller.
I connect them with the shelter’s resources when they’re ready—legal aid, counseling, safe housing—and for those who aren’t, I simply listen.
Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes a single conversation plants a seed that blooms months later into the courage to leave.
I hope what I do makes a difference, at least for someone.
The familiar knot in my stomach tightens as I turn onto Owen’s street.
Some things never change, but they have shifted.
The knot is smaller now, more manageable.
A discomfort rather than the panic it used to be.
Owen appears in the doorway before I’ve even turned off the engine, checking his watch with that familiar expression of barely contained irritation.
His mouth is set in a thin line, eyebrows drawn together.
“You’re seven minutes late,” he says, as I step out of the car, his voice carrying that tone that used to make me scramble for explanations, apologies tumbling over themselves in my haste to placate.
“Traffic,” I call out, opening Jamie’s door and helping him out. My voice is steady, matter-of-fact. I don’t offer the explanations I used to provide. No longer trying to prove my innocence in a court where I was always guilty until proven otherwise.
“Dad!” Jamie runs ahead of me, light up sneakers pounding over the concrete driveway as he launches himself into Owen’s arms. Owen catches him, and for a heartbeat his face transforms. The rigid lines soften, his eyes brighten, and I glimpse the man I once thought I loved.
“Hi, buddy.” Owen grins, his voice gentler than the tone he’d used with me moments before.
I smooth down my navy blue sweater with trembling fingers, the soft cashmere providing little comfort against the anxiety that still crawls up my spine.
I take a breath and force my hands to still, crossing my arms firmly over my chest. I won’t pick at my fingers like I used to.
Owen sets Jamie down gently, as he watches our son run back to hug me and kiss me on the cheek before disappearing into the house.
“Traffic huh?” He sketches a brow at me. “Must be nice to have such a flexible schedule these days. Not everyone can afford to just show up whenever.” I don’t take the bait.
“Yeah, It’s been nice.”
“I suppose all that reality TV money makes it easier to play around instead of focusing on what really matters.” He’s got no idea the signing bonus all went to Jamie’s college fund, and definitely no idea that any prize money went to charity.
All important details he doesn’t care about because it doesn’t fit his narrative of who he thinks I am.
In the old days, that comment would have sent me spiraling into a defensive explanation about my work, my priorities, my worth as a mother. Now I just shrug.
“Jamie has everything he needs.” Owen’s jaw tightens slightly. He’s fishing for a reaction, trying to find the old buttons he used to push so easily.
“I just hope you’re thinking about stability. For his sake. All this... attention you’ve been getting lately. It’s a lot for a four-year-old to process.”
“Jamie’s doing great,” I say, my voice pleasant but final as I nod my head to myself. “You’ll see for yourself this week.”
“And this boyfriend of yours—”
“Collin,” I correct calmly.
“Right. Collin.” Owen’s mouth twists slightly around the name.
“I trust you’re being careful about the kind of influence you’re bringing into Jamie’s life.
Some of us have to think long-term.” There it is—the subtle dig, the implication that I’m reckless, impulsive, not thinking of my son’s future.
The old Iris would have stumbled over herself to prove him wrong.
“Jamie’s lucky to have so many people who care about him,” I say instead, refusing to engage with the underlying accusation.
Owen opens his mouth, clearly preparing another volley, but I’m already moving toward the car.
“Hate to cut this short, but I have plans. I’ll call tonight to say goodnight to Jamie. Have fun with the Legos.”
“Iris—” Owen starts, but I’m already climbing into my car, offering him a polite wave through the window.
As I back out of the driveway, I catch sight of him in my rearview mirror, standing on his front porch with his hands on his hips, glaring at my taillights.
Owen is still a jerk, that much hasn’t changed.
But his power over me has diminished to something more manageable, like a headache I barely notice anymore.
My phone rings as I’m pulling onto the main road.
Mom’s name flashes on the display, and I answer on the second ring.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, Iris.” Her voice has softened over these past months, the sharp edges worn down by time and my apparent happiness. “I wanted to confirm dinner tomorrow night. Seven o’clock?”
“Perfect. I can make a reservation for four.” There’s a pause.
“Four?”
“Yeah, you, me, dad, and Collin.” The silence stretches, and I hold my breath. This is still new territory for us. My mother acknowledging that Collin isn’t just a phase or a rebound.
“Yes,” she says finally. “Yes, I’d like that very much.
” Another pause. “Iris, I... I owe you an apology. Several, actually. I was wrong about a lot of things. About what you needed, what you deserved. I’m still learning, but I want to do better.
” The words are stilted, formal in that way my mother approaches anything emotional, but at least she said them.
“Thank you, Mom. That means a lot.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Both of you.” I have to blink rapidly when she hangs up, my vision blurring.
I swipe at my cheek with the back of my hand, finding it wet.
Just as the afternoon sun breaks through Seattle’s perpetual cloud cover, I turn onto my street.
The light catches the windows of my little blue house, and there, leaning against his SUV in my driveway with his arms crossed over his chest, is Collin.
He straightens as I pull up, and even through my windshield I can see the flowers in his hands—tulips with vibrant green stems and pink, waxy petals that catch the light.
My favorite. A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
He’s wearing that soft gray sweater that makes me want to bury my face in his shoulder, and as I get out of the car, I watch him run his hand through his dark hair and fidget with the stems in his hands.
He grins as I walk toward him, his whole face transforming with that dimpled smile that still makes my stomach flutter.
“Happy three-month anniversary, Pretty Girl.” I accept the flowers, their petals soft against my palm, noting the slightly bruised stems. As if he’s been fiddling with them for some time.
“You remembered.”
“I remember everything about you,” he says, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me in for a kiss. His lips are soft against mine, palm warm through my sweater.
“Hi,” he mumbles
“Hi.” I giggle back.