Epilogue – Wendy
Four Years Later
I'm elbow-deep in bread dough when I hear the door slam.
I glance toward the hallway and catch a glimpse of Kinsley disappearing into her room, her hair swinging behind her like a dark curtain. A moment later, her door closes with another sharp click.
Ezra looks up from the table where he's been sharpening his hunting knife, one eyebrow raised. "What was that about?"
"I asked her to help."
"And?"
"And she said she was busy."
"Busy doing what?"
"Reading, apparently." I press the heel of my hand into the dough, folding it over itself. "Which, to be fair, she probably is. But also, she's thirteen and everything is a tragedy right now."
Ezra sets the knife down and leans back in his chair, his expression somewhere between amused and bewildered. "When did that happen?"
"The tragedy phase?"
"All of it. One day she's showing you her rock collection, and the next she's slamming doors because I asked her to wash the dishes."
I laugh, dusting flour off my hands. "Welcome to teenagers."
"I don't like it."
He grunts, picking up the knife again, and I watch him drag the blade across the whetstone in slow strokes.
Bolt lifts his head from where he's sprawled near the stove, ears perked, then sighs and settles back down. He's older now, but still content to follow me from room to room and claim whatever warm spot he can find.
I turn back to the dough, kneading it with more force than necessary, and Ezra glances up at me.
"You're going to punch a hole through the counter," he says.
"I'm fine."
"You're annoyed."
I stop kneading and look at him. He's watching me with that steady, knowing gaze that still makes my stomach flip even after years of marriage.
"Okay, maybe I'm a little annoyed," I admit. "But it's not about the dishes. It's—" I pause, searching for the right words. "She used to want to help with everything. Cooking, cleaning, lessons. Now she acts like I'm asking her to climb a mountain barefoot."
"She's growing up."
"I know."
"And she still helps. Just not when you ask the first time."
I sigh, folding the dough one more time before covering it with a towel. "I know that too. It's just… different."
Ezra stands and crosses the room, stopping behind me. His hands settle on my hips, warm and solid, and he leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head.
"She's not pulling away from you," he says quietly. "She's just figuring out who she is. That's normal."
"When did you become the expert on teenagers?"
"I'm not. But I remember being one."
I turn in his arms and look up at him. "You were probably the broodiest teenager in existence."
"Probably."
I smile despite myself and lean into him, resting my forehead against his chest. He smells like woodsmoke and I breathe it in, letting the tension drain from my shoulders.
"She's lucky to have you," he murmurs.
"We're lucky to have each other."
His arms tighten around me, and we stand like that for a long moment.
Eventually, I pull back and look up at him. "I should check on the food."
"I'll get it."
"You're sharpening your knife."
"I'm done." He releases me and moves to the stove, lifting the lid off the pot and stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. Steam rises, and my stomach growls.
I wash my hands at the basin and dry them on a towel, then move to the window. The light outside is fading, the sky shifting from pale blue to soft pink and orange. Snow covers everything, and the world looks quiet and still.
"Storm's coming in tomorrow," Ezra says behind me.
"How do you know?"
"I can feel it."
I glance over my shoulder at him. "You and your mountain instincts."
He smirks. "They've kept us alive this long."
"Fair point."
He sets the spoon aside and turns to face me, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
He's wearing the same flannel shirt he's had for years, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair is slightly mussed from running his hands through it.
His beard is thicker now, more gray than brown.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing. Just looking."
"At what?"
"You."
His mouth twitches into a smile, and he pushes off the counter, crossing the room in three long strides. He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to see his face, and cups my jaw with one hand.
"You've been looking at me for years," he says, his voice low and teasing.
"And I plan to keep doing it."
He leans down and kisses me, slow and warm, and I sink into it, my hands coming up to rest on his chest.
His heart beats steady beneath my palm, strong and reassuring, and I feel the tension I didn't realize I was still carrying finally release.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushes across my cheek, and his expression softens.
"You're a good mother," he says quietly.
The words catch me off-guard, and I blink up at him. "Ezra—"
"You are. Even when she's difficult. Even when she slams doors and rolls her eyes and acts like the world is ending because you asked her to help with dinner. You're patient. You're kind. And she knows she's loved."
My throat tightens, and I have to look away for a moment, blinking back the sudden sting of tears.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He presses another kiss to my forehead, then steps back and moves toward the hallway. "I'll go talk to her."
"You don't have to."
"I know. But I want to."
I watch him disappear down the hall, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards, and then I hear the soft knock on Kinsley's door.
The door opens and closes, and I hear the low rumble of Ezra's voice, though I can't make out the words. A moment later, I hear Kinsley's voice, sharper and more animated, and then laughter.
I smile and turn back to the stove.
A few minutes later, the door opens again, and Kinsley emerges, her expression sheepish. She crosses the room and stops beside me, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Sorry," she mutters.
"For what?"
"For being dramatic."
I set the spoon down and turn to face her. "You're not being dramatic. You're being thirteen."
She looks up at me, her dark eyes uncertain. "Dad said I should help with dinner."
"Only if you want to."
"I want to."
I smile and gesture toward the counter. "Can you slice the bread?"
She nods and moves to the cutting board, picking up the knife and sawing through the loaf with careful precision. I watch her for a moment, noting the way her hands have grown steadier, more confident, and I feel a pang of something bittersweet.
Ezra returns to the room, his expression satisfied, and catches my eye. He doesn't say anything, just nods once, and I know everything is okay.
Bolt wanders over and sits at Kinsley's feet, tail thumping hopefully, and she sneaks him a piece of bread crust when she thinks we're not looking.
When everything is ready, we sit down together, the three of us, and eat.
The conversation is easy and familiar, Kinsley talking about the book she's reading, Ezra mentioning the fence that needs mending, me reminding them both that we're low on firewood and someone needs to bring more in before the storm hits.
It's ordinary. Unremarkable.
And it's perfect.
After dinner, Kinsley retreats to her room again, this time without drama, and Ezra and I clean up together.
He washes, I dry, and we move around each other with the kind of ease that comes from years of practice.
When the dishes are done, he drapes the towel over the edge of the basin and turns to me, pulling me into his arms without a word. I go willingly, resting my head against his chest, and he rests his chin on top of my head.
Ezra leans down and kisses me again, slow and deep, and I lose myself in it, in him, in the warmth and safety of this life we've built together.
Thank you for reading!