Epilogue Rainbow Unicorn
Rainbow Unicorn
Epilogue
Geoff
Iam wildly underqualified for this situation.
Christa is on a hospital bed. There are machines doing machine noises. A midwife who looks alarmingly calm keeps telling her to breathe, like this is a yoga class and not a medical event that will haunt me forever.
Christa is breathing like a dragon.
I am holding her hand and trying not to pass out.
“You’re doing amazing,” I tell her, because somehow that’s my job now.
“I will kill you,” she replies, perfectly lucid.
“That’s fair,” I say. “I accept this outcome.”
Another contraction hits and she grips my hand like she’s trying to crush bone into dust. I consider warning her that I need that hand for future parenting tasks but decide now is not the time.
The midwife smiles at me. Sympathetic. Knowing. Like she’s already noticed that I am seconds away from tears or vomiting or both.
“You can talk to her,” she says kindly.
I nod like I know what that means.
“Christa,” I say, leaning closer. “Love. You’re incredible. You’re terrifying, but incredible.”
She snorts mid-pain. “Shut up.”
Progress.
Time stops existing. Everything narrows to her breathing, the pressure of her hand in mine, the absolute certainty that I would now fight all the gods if asked.
“Okay,” the midwife says brightly. “One more big push.”
Christa looks at me, eyes blazing.
“If I die,” she says, “tell everyone I was right about everything.”
“I already do,” I say immediately.
She laughs. Loud. Then pushes.
There is chaos. Swearing. Encouragement. A noise I will never forget and will absolutely not describe to anyone.
And then.
A cry.
High. Furious. Alive.
“Oh,” I whisper.
They lift her up, small and slippery and astonishing, and place her on Christa’s chest like this is the most normal thing in the world and not a miracle I am wildly unprepared to witness.
She has dark hair. Tiny clenched fists. Lungs that clearly have opinions.
I laugh.
Not cool laughter. Not composed laughter. The kind that breaks out of you when your heart suddenly grows three sizes and forgets how to behave.
“Hello,” I say to her, voice wrecked. “Hello, my girl.”
Christa looks at me, exhausted and glowing and utterly real.
“She’s perfect,” she murmurs.
“She is,” I agree. “And she looks like she’s already judging me.”
Our daughter lets out another indignant yell, face scrunched like she’s already dissatisfied with the world.
I kiss Christa’s forehead. Then the top of our daughter’s head. Then Christa again because I can’t quite believe either of them are here and staying.
“I love you,” I tell Christa. “Both of you. More than anything I ever thought I was capable of.”
She smiles. Soft. Certain.
“Told you we can do this,” she says faintly.
I laugh again, pressing my hand over hers, over our daughter, grounding myself in the weight of them.
Christa exhales, long and slow, like she’s finally come back into her body.
“I know her name,” she says.
That stops me dead.
“You do?” I say carefully.
She nods. “I do.”
Relief crashes through me so hard it’s almost physical. Because, for the last twelve weeks, we have discussed approximately every name ever recorded by humanity and rejected all of them with impressive efficiency.
There were the sensible ones. Too sensible. The trendy ones. Absolutely not. Anything that sounded like a future estate agent was immediately binned. Anything that sounded like a medieval plague victim met the same fate.
At one point we even considered Lucy’s suggested Rainbow Unicorn and, due to exhaustion and fear, it was briefly not a hard no.
I had concerns.
“So,” I say, voice low, reverent, terrified. “You’re sure?”
Christa smiles. Tired. Certain. Glowing in that way that feels unfair to the rest of us.
“Yes.”
I nod, swallowing. “Okay.”
She looks down at our daughter, then back up at me, eyes bright despite everything.
“Elizabeth,” she says.
I don’t respond straight away. Not because I don’t like it. Because I feel it land somewhere deep and heavy and unexpectedly emotional.
I clear my throat. “Elizabeth,” I repeat.
She nods. “Elizabeth.”
I smile, then hesitate, because I’m still me and my brain insists on asking practical questions even when my heart is doing backflips.
“Can I ask…” I start gently, “why my mum and not yours?”
“I love my mum,” she says. “She’s kind and warm and raised me to be decent and stubborn in all the right ways.”
She glances toward the door, then back at me.
“But Elizabeth Corbin,” she continues, voice fond and amused, “is a force of nature. She walks into a room and the room rearranges itself. Nobody messes with an Elizabeth Corbin. Not men, not marble buildings, not life.”
I huff out a laugh. “That is… painfully accurate.”
“She didn’t make me feel like I had to earn my place,” Christa adds quietly. “She just decided I belonged. And I think that matters.”
My chest tightens, sharp and unexpected.
I look down at our daughter. At the tiny, furious little face already pulling expressions that feel worryingly familiar.
“Elizabeth,” I say again.
It fits. Strong. Steady. Unshakeable.
I nod. “Alright then.”
Christa exhales, relief flickering across her face.
“You’re okay with it?”
“I’m more than okay,” I say, leaning in and kissing her forehead. “If she has even half my mum’s backbone, the world doesn’t stand a chance.”
“And, because Elizabeth is a large name for a tiny baby, we can call her Lizzie for now,” Christa suggests.
Our daughter lets out a sharp little cry, as if she’s trying to tell us something.
Christa smiles. “See? She agrees.”
I laugh softly, leaning in so my forehead rests against hers. Everything about her looks tired and powerful and real, like she’s just moved mountains and is quietly daring the world to comment on it.
“I love you,” I say.
She looks at me, eyes soft, steady, certain in a way that makes my chest ache.
“I love you too,” she says.
And, between us, warm and furious and perfect, Lizzie Corbin stretches and complains like she already knows we are at her beck and call.
This is it.
This is everything.
This is my family.
The Corbin Brothers are back in
The Christmas Escape – Finding Each Other... One Festive Disaster at a Time
And if you want to find out how Theo met Ivy, check out
The Dating Ban – Finding Myself… One Clay Gnome at a Time