Epilogue
EPILOGUE
THREE YEARS LATER
JENSEN
Cheeks flushed and eyes burning with angry fire, Maisy growls at me. “I hate you so much right now.”
“I know. Hate me all you want. I can take it.” I brush the mess of curls off her damp forehead while she crushes my other hand in a death grip, her nails cutting into my skin. “You’re so beautiful right now,” I whisper.
She drops her head on the pillow and whines, “Why did you do this to me? You’re such an asshole.”
The nurses assisting in the delivery room can’t contain their amusement, biting back laughter and ducking their heads to hide their smiles. Maisy has been entertaining them with her rapid mood changes for the past hour.
She woke me in the middle of the night, hitting me in the face with a pillow, and demanded I drive her to the hospital. By the time we arrived and got her checked in, she was about ready to deliver, and the medical staff sprang into action.
“Everything will work out. I promise,” I assure her, something I’ve been doing for the past few months.
After a slow start, her career got back on track, and she’s making a name for herself in editorial makeup. She travels to photo shoots all over the world, but she took a break at the end of her second trimester. With her job, she’s often in high-stress environments and spends long hours on her feet. She’s been worried about how an extended maternity leave might affect her career, but we agreed her and the baby’s health are more important than work.
A keening sound escapes her when she curls forward with a strong contraction. Once the pain subsides, she slumps back in defeat and cries, “I’m having a giant!”
Because she’s so petite, the obstetrician gave her the option of delivering by C-section. She chose a vaginal delivery, much to my dismay.
“I don’t like you hurting.” That was the wrong thing to say.
“Do you want to trade places?” she snaps.
Bringing our joined hands to my mouth, I change tact and try for encouragement instead. “You’re gonna be the best mom.” Apparently, this is also the wrong thing to say.
“Oh my god, I’m a single mom!” she wails. In less than a second, her facial expression morphs from one of absolute devastation to ruthless challenge, eyes narrowed to slits. “You better fucking marry me, Jensen Holloway. I’m not doing this alone. Propose right now, or we’re done.”
Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh, or she’ll kill you .
Actually, she proposed to me a year ago during a midnight game of paintball at Graham and Miguel’s house in Walford. I caught her alone in the dark, but she turned the tables, pinning me to the ground. She demanded I marry her and said she wanted to start a family. To say I was blindsided—and ecstatic—is an understatement.
We didn’t get married straight away and haven’t set a date, but that didn’t stop us from trying to get pregnant. We succeeded quicker than either of us expected, so here we are.
In answer to her latest marriage demand, I say, “I’ll propose if you want, beautiful. Any time and place. Let’s just meet our daughter first.”
When she whimpers, her pouty mouth turns down at the corners. “I love when you’re sweet.”
“I love you more than life,” I say, reminding her with a kiss to her forehead.
Suddenly, the doctor announces, “Alright, Maisy, it’s time to push.”
Baring her teeth like she has a score to settle with the universe, Maisy’s knuckles turn white against my crushed hand. Minutes later, our baby—who’s not a giant, weighing a mere six pounds—enters the world. She sobs when the nurse places our daughter in her arms, and she doesn’t let me hold her. But I’m okay with giving Maisy the time she needs to form a bond. To realize she’s been preparing for motherhood her whole life, caring for others with grace, patience, and quiet strength.
When we get a moment alone without nurses or other staff in the room, I ask, “Will you finally tell me what you’ve named our daughter?”
She adjusts the baby’s blanket and brushes a thumb across the tiniest cheek I’ve ever kissed. “Christine,” she says, tears welling in her eyes.
Shocked at hearing my mom’s name, I choke back a sob. “Really?”
“Really.” Neither of us can stop staring at our daughter, but I hear the smile in Maisy’s voice when she asks, “When did we become such crybabies?”
Chuckling, I swipe a hand down my wet face. “I don’t know, but as long as we’re always crying because we’re happy, I’m good with it.”
Eyes glistening with wonder and love, she whispers, “Look what we made, J.”
With my family tucked inside the safety of my embrace, I say, “She’s perfect. Just like her mother.”
Maisy rests her head on my shoulder, exhausted from being so amazing today. “I love you, Jensen. Thank you for putting up with me.”
I kiss her forehead. “I love you too, my beautiful birdie. Thank you for the gift of this little dove.”
MAISY
Christine, snug inside her car seat, sleeps peacefully in the back of our new SUV. At Jensen’s insistence, the vehicle has every safety feature a car can have. If he could line the interior with protective foam and bubble wrap, he would.
I’m in the back seat with our daughter, unable to take my eyes off her. A blink seems unbearable because I don’t want to miss out on a second of her life. She’s beautiful, with a head of thick, dark hair like Jensen’s and a slight wave hinting she may inherit my curls.
I kept her to myself at first, worried if I let her go, she might not love me. Or she’d think I don’t love her enough. Jensen assured me she’d need us both, and in the span of one day in the hospital, we became a team. I breastfed; he changed diapers. We took turns rocking her, holding her while we held each other with his big body wedged onto the small bed with me. We fell into instant love with her and deeper love with each other in those quiet first hours as a new family.
With Christine fast asleep, I peel my eyes away from her and look at Jensen. He adjusts the air vents, pointing them to his sweaty face, his features tightened with worry.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’ve never been so nervous about driving in my life. Are you sure we tethered the car seat? And her straps aren’t too loose?”
“You triple checked, and I checked again. She’s fine.”
He blows out a breath, white knuckling the steering wheel. Despite driving slower than the speed limit, he’s on edge. His head jerks in all directions, checking the side and rearview mirrors for threats to our safety.
I reach out and lightly scratch the back of his neck. “Breathe, J. You’re doing great.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about. These other drivers need to slow down,” he says, his volume rising as he glowers at a passing truck.
When we get home, we’ll get his therapist on the phone. Unfortunately, Dr. Sims retired her psychology practice a few months ago. Jensen struggled with the change at first, but he’s growing comfortable with the new doctor.
With as many challenges as he faces daily, he’s come a long way. Since working with a speech pathologist, finding the right medications, and employing all the coping methods Dr. Sims introduced in talk therapy, his good days outnumber the bad days by far.
I paint as often as I can, as more of a hobby than an outlet. After a year of group sessions with Irina, everyone in her studio knew all the details about my life, my past, and my relationship with my parents. Opening up doesn’t scare me anymore.
In fact, once I felt ready to meet with my parents and discuss my childhood, we had lunch together. The three of us talked for hours. They owned up to their mistakes, offered profuse apologies, and asked a thousand questions about me and my life after high school. They also told me how proud they are of the woman I’ve become despite not having their guidance and support in my formative years. I believe they regret their obliviousness to my wants and needs, and they continue trying to show me how much I mean to them. It feels nice to count them among my chosen family members again. Speaking of…
My hand rests on Jensen’s shoulder, grounding him, and I slide my gaze back to Christine. Out of nowhere, a flash of me boarding a plane and leaving her for a job at some faraway location hits me. My stomach swoops from the sudden fear of failing her because I won’t be with her every day. Then the image of Jensen caring for her, doting on her while I’m away tempers my worries. They’ll greet me at the airport upon my return. Their eyes will shine with pride because I’m a successful working mother who balances family and a career, the family part always the priority.
Our daughter will never believe she’s an unwanted burden or an inconvenience. Not a single hour will pass where she doesn’t see, hear, or feel how much she’s cherished and loved. Jensen and I will make sure of it.
I gaze out the window as we pass the Welcome to Walford sign and smile at the thought of being home soon, my little family in tow. They’re my greatest accomplishment, never to be outmatched, and the only thing worth fighting for, no matter what comes our way.
Pressing my nose to Christine’s soft hair, I breathe in the delicate scent of new life and whisper, “We promise to love you, little dove. Unconditionally.”
The End