Extended Epilogue
WEST
Five years later…
The gate looks smaller than I remember.
Five years ago, we caught Ivy here, barefoot and desperate, trying to run from what she didn't know she wanted yet.
Now the SUV rolls through, and she's in the passenger seat with our youngest, Jax, asleep against her shoulder.
The two older ones are arguing in the back about who gets to show Grandpa the drawing they made.
Same house. Different everything.
Roman parks near the front steps. Knox is already out, pulling the middle one—our daughter, Viv—from her car seat before she can unbuckle herself and fall. She shrieks with laughter, wraps her arms around his neck, and demands he throw her in the air.
He does. Three times.
Ivy shifts the baby carefully, her hand cupping his head. He's two months old. Still does that newborn thing where he startles at loud noises, his tiny fists jerking up like he's trying to catch something that isn't there.
I take him from her. His weight settles against my chest, warm and solid, and his eyes flutter open for a second before closing again.
"You changed his shirt," I say.
Ivy blinks. "In the car. How did you?—"
"Different snaps."
She shakes her head, smiling. "You're unbelievable."
The oldest, Kieran, is already sprinting toward the front door, shouting for his grandfather. Victor appears on the porch, Mom beside him, and he crouches just in time to catch the kid's full-speed tackle.
Victor's sixty today. His hair's more gray than it was five years ago, but his grip is still strong when he lifts our son and swings him around. The kid laughs so hard he hiccups.
Mom waves at us. Ivy waves back, and I watch the way her shoulders drop—just a fraction. Relief, maybe. Or just the feeling of being here, where it started, and knowing it turned into this.
Victor crosses the lawn with the kid still attached to him. His eyes land on the baby in my arms, and something in his face shifts. Softens.
"Can I?" he asks.
I hand him over.
Victor holds his grandson like he's done this a hundred times before.
Maybe he has. He visits twice a month now, more when his schedule allows.
Plays on the floor with the kids. Sits through dinner and doesn't flinch when Roman kisses Ivy at the table or when Knox pulls her into his lap to make room for someone else.
Five years ago, he said he needed time.
He chose this. Kept choosing it. That's more than enough.
Ivy's across the lawn now, chasing our daughter, who's shrieking and zigzagging to avoid capture. Knox watches from the porch steps, grinning. Roman's talking to Mom, his hand on her shoulder, saying something that makes her laugh.
Ivy catches the kid, spins her around, and looks back at me. Our eyes meet. She smiles—one of those small, private ones that belongs to no one else—and mouths something I already know.
I love you.
People talked. Still do, some of them. Strangers with opinions about a family they've never met. We're not what they expected. Not what they'd choose.
We're consenting adults. We love each other. We're not hurting anyone.
The people who matter are here. On this lawn. Making too much noise. Everyone else is just static.
Victor's laughing at something Kieran said. The baby's awake again, blinking up at his grandfather with unfocused eyes. Ivy's holding our daughter's hand, walking back toward me with that look on her face—the one that still makes my chest tighten after five years.
I don't need the world's permission for this.
Never did.
Thanks for reading!