Epilogue
Emma
Six Weeks Later
Gracie is crying. Graham is crying. I have spit-up in my hair—possibly from yesterday—and Miles is changing a diaper while simultaneously bouncing to soothe. This is our life now, and somehow, despite the chaos and exhaustion, I wouldn't change a thing.
"Got him," Miles announces, lifting Graham from the changing table. "Your turn."
I'm already unbuttoning my shirt for the third feeding in four hours. Gracie latches immediately, her little face scrunched in concentration. Graham settles in Miles' arms with a bottle of pumped milk, his crying fading to whimpers.
"What time is it?" I ask.
Miles checks his watch. "Three AM."
"Again?"
"Still. It's been three AM for approximately six weeks straight."
"That's not how time works."
"Tell that to our children."
Gracie finishes and immediately falls asleep, milk-drunk and content. I burp her carefully, praying she stays asleep long enough for me to close my eyes.
"Want me to take her?" Miles asks.
"No, I've got her. You take Graham back to his bassinet."
We perform the delicate dance of getting both babies back in their bassinets without waking them. It takes approximately ten minutes of careful positioning and held breath.
Both babies stay asleep.
"We did it," Miles whispers.
"Don't jinx it."
We tiptoe out of the nursery like we're defusing bombs. In the hallway, we high-five silently before collapsing into bed.
"Four hours until the next feeding," I say.
"If we're lucky."
"When have we been lucky?"
"Fair point."
I'm asleep before he can respond.
Ten weeks later…
Thursday morning finds me at Preston & Associates in actual work clothes that aren't pajamas. It's one of my two work days per week, and I'm feeling almost human after consuming an entire pot of coffee.
Sarah's giving me a case update in my office. Tom brings me coffee—decaf, still nursing—and sets it on my desk with a knowing smile.
"You look good, boss," he says.
"I'm running on two hours of sleep and spite."
He grins. "Twins will do that."
"You have no idea. Literally no idea."
Sarah laughs. "How are they?"
"Loud. Hungry. Currently six weeks old and already refusing to sleep at reasonable hours."
"Sounds about right." Sarah closes her file. "The Henderson contract finalized yesterday. Morrison case settles next week. Everything's on track."
"You two are miracle workers."
"We learned from the best." Tom gestures at the files stacked neatly on my desk. "These need your signature when you have time. No rush."
I look at the organized office, the competent associates, the sustainable practice I built. I'm making this work—attorney and mom, both at once.
"We've got this, Emma," Sarah says. "Go be with your babies when you need to."
My throat tightens. These postpartum hormones are relentless.
"Stop making me emotional at work."
"Sorry." Sarah doesn't look sorry at all.
Maggie appears in the doorway. "Brennen's on line two. Something about wine tasting at Celtic Knot this weekend?"
"Tell him I'll call back." I look at Sarah and Tom. "Actually, tell him yes. Miles and I could use adult conversation that doesn't involve diapers."
"Will the twins be there?" Tom asks.
"Knowing my brothers? They're the main attraction."
Saturday afternoon finds us loading Gracie and Graham into their car seats—a process that takes approximately three times longer than it should—for the drive to Celtic Knot.
"Remember when we could just leave the house?" I ask Miles.
"Vaguely."
"Remember when we slept?"
"That's a myth."
"Remember when I didn't have spit-up on every shirt I own?"
"Nope. That never happened."
I laugh despite my exhaustion. "We're surviving this, right?"
"We're crushing this."
Celtic Knot is bustling when we arrive. The expansion is complete—new fermentation tanks gleaming, additional tasting room space, the whole operation thriving. Brennen meets us in the parking lot, practically vibrating with excitement.
"You brought them!" He's already reaching for the car seats.
"We live twenty minutes away. Where else would we leave them?"
"Fair point." He lifts Gracie's carrier with exaggerated care. "Hi sweetheart. Uncle Brennen missed you."
"You saw her three days ago," Miles points out, grabbing Graham's carrier.
"That's too long."
Inside, the family is already gathered. Ryan and Candace, Joselyn, Sophie and Alex, Julie. And—surprisingly—Daisy and Ashe from Waverly Blooms.
"Emma!" Julie swoops in for a hug. "How are you surviving?"
"Barely. Coffee and denial."
"That's the spirit."
Sophie takes Gracie from Brennen with practiced ease. "Look how big she's getting. What are they now, six weeks?"
"Six weeks and two days," Miles says automatically.
"You're counting?"
"I'm tracking everything. I have a spreadsheet."
"Of course you do."
Alex lifts Graham from his carrier, cradling him gently. "They're going to grow up running through these vines."
"Future winemakers?" Sophie asks.
"Future anything they want to be," I correct.
Ryan's already calculating something on his phone. "If they start college at eighteen, and tuition inflation continues at current rates—"
"Ryan. Stop."
"I'm just planning ahead."
"You're spiraling."
"Same thing."
Candace takes the phone from him. "No calculating college costs while holding babies. New rule."
We settle at a large table in the tasting room. The babies pass from person to person, cooed over and admired. I manage to eat an actual meal with both hands—a luxury I haven't experienced in six weeks.
"How's the part-time schedule working?" Joselyn asks.
"Better than expected. Sarah and Tom are handling everything. I go in Tuesdays and Thursdays, work from home when the babies sleep."
"Which is never," Miles adds.
"Which is never," I confirm. "But it works. Somehow."
Daisy and Ashe have been unusually quiet, exchanging glances. Finally, Daisy clears her throat.
"We have news," she says.
Everyone turns to look.
"We're pregnant," Ashe announces.
The table erupts in congratulations. My eyes are immediately wet.
"That's amazing!" I manage. "Congratulations!"
Daisy comes around the table to hug me. "Watching you do this made us ready. You made it look possible."
I laugh. "I make it look possible? I'm a disaster."
"A beautiful disaster," she corrects.
"I haven't slept in six weeks. I have spit-up in my hair right now. Yesterday I cried because Miles made me toast."
"See? Possible." Daisy grins. "If you can handle twins while running a law practice, we can handle one baby."
"You're insane."
"Probably. But we're doing it anyway."
Julie raises her wine glass—I'm drinking sparkling cider. "To Daisy and Ashe. May your baby sleep better than the Murphy twins."
"Impossible," Miles mutters.
"Accurate," I agree.
The afternoon passes in a blur of conversation, laughter, and babies being passed around like adorable footballs. Gracie spits up on Ryan's expensive shirt. Graham has a diaper blowout that requires Brennen's assistance. It's chaotic and exhausting and exactly what we needed.
"This is nice," I tell Miles quietly. "Being out of the house. Talking to adults."
"We should do this more often."
"When do we have time?"
"Valid point."
Sophie's back with Gracie, who's starting to fuss. "Someone's hungry."
"Story of my life." I take Gracie to a quiet corner to nurse while Miles gives Graham a bottle in the chair next to me.
"Tag team feeding," he says.
"Our specialty."
We sit side by side, each feeding a baby, watching our family laugh and celebrate across the room.
"I love this," I tell Miles.
"The feeding?"
"All of it. The chaos. The family. Us."
He reaches over with his free hand, squeezing mine briefly before Graham demands his attention back.
That evening, we're finally home. Both babies fed, changed, and miraculously asleep at the same time.
"It's a Christmas miracle," I whisper.
"Wrong holiday."
"Any miracle will do."
We collapse on the couch, too exhausted to move. The house is quiet except for the baby monitor's gentle static.
"We survived six weeks," I say.
"We really did."
"Only eighteen years to go."
"One day at a time."
The monitor crackles. Gracie's making sounds—not crying yet, just stirring. We both hold our breath, waiting to see if she settles.
She does.
"Two miracles in one night," Miles whispers.
"We're on a roll."
He pulls me closer, and I rest my head on his shoulder. My body aches. My eyes burn with exhaustion. I can't remember the last time I showered.
And I wouldn't trade any of it.
"Want to check on them?" Miles asks.
"Always."
We tiptoe to the nursery. Two cribs, two sleeping babies, soft yellow walls. The room we prepared, now filled with the tiny humans we made.
Miles moves to Gracie's crib, looking down at our daughter. I stand at Graham's, watching our son sleep with his little fists curled against his face.
"Remember when you were terrified to tell me?" Miles asks quietly.
I laugh. "Remember when you knew before I told you?"
"Very observant."
"Very smug."
"Very in love with you," he says.
I move to stand beside him at Gracie's crib. "I was so scared that day in the park. Thought everything would fall apart."
"And instead?"
"Everything came together."
Gracie stirs slightly. Miles gently places his hand on her back and she settles.
"Magic touch," I observe.
"Dad powers."
Graham makes a sound from his crib—just dreaming. We both check on him automatically, then return our attention to Gracie.
"Six weeks ago, we were in the hospital," Miles says. "Meeting them for the first time."
"Feels like yesterday and also a lifetime ago."
"Think we'll ever sleep again?"
"Probably not."
"Worth it?"
"Completely."
Then Gracie starts crying.
Then Graham joins in.
Miles and I look at each other.
"Here we go," he says.
"Here we go," I agree.
He picks up Gracie. I get Graham. We settle into the rocking chairs—one for each baby, purchased specifically for these moments.
"Wanna switch?" Miles asks after a moment.
We swap babies. Gracie settles against my chest, her crying softening. Graham calms in Miles' arms, already half-asleep.
"Getting good at this," I observe.
"We really are."
Miles starts humming—some made-up tune that seems to work on both babies. Gracie's eyes close. Graham's breathing evens out.
This is our life now. Sleepless nights and constant feedings and figuring it out as we go. My practice works because I built it to flex. Miles juggles wine reviews and dad duties like he was born for both. We're exhausted and covered in baby fluids and happier than I ever imagined possible.
Miles reaches over, taking my free hand while we each hold a baby.
Gracie's fully asleep now. Graham's making tiny snoring sounds.
Outside, the sun is setting. Tomorrow, we'll do this all again—the feedings, the diapers, the exhaustion.
But we'll do it side by side.
The way we do everything.