Epilogue
MARLEY
THREE YEARS LATER
The Vancouver Pride parade stretched down Robson Street like a river of colour and joy.
I adjusted my black button-down and rolled up the sleeves, the June sun warming my tattooed forearms. My hair was shorter now, cropped close on the sides, but that didn’t stop my wife from running her fingers through it, muscle memory, if you asked me.
She stood beside me in a flowing yellow sundress, her natural hair swept up in an elegant bun that showed off the delicate gold hoops I’d given her for our second anniversary.
“Remember our first trip to Berlin together?” she asked, leaning into my shoulder as a group of drag queens sashayed past, throwing glitter that caught in the afternoon light.
How could I forget?
We’d visited my parents together after we graduated from our master’s programme.
Kelechi had been nervous about meeting them, but lit up the moment my mother pulled her into a fierce hug.
Those two weeks had been magical, long walks through Kreuzberg, lazy mornings in my childhood bedroom, my father teaching Kelechi German pronunciations that still gave her trouble whenever she attempted them.
“You cried when we walked through the Tr?nenpalast,” I reminded her, wrapping my arm around her waist, careful not to put pressure on her rounded belly.
“Sad tears,” she laughed. “Especially after learning the true history of that place.”
“Such a cry-baby,” I teased. “My cry-baby.”
She nudged me lightly.
Six months pregnant and glowing, she was radiant in ways that drew glances from strangers. The yellow dress emphasised how her body had changed and softened, though she remained oblivious to the effect she had on everyone around her.
Especially me.
“There they are!” Atlas’s voice carried over the crowd before I saw her and Carmen close behind, carrying their one-year-old daughter Zara on her hip. They’d married a year after Kelechi and I got back together, in a private ceremony that had all of us in happy tears.
“Ba, ba!” Zara squealed, reaching her chubby arms toward us. She was such a beautiful child, with Atlas’s eyes and mostly Carmen’s features.
My wife took her easily, settling the toddler against her hip while supporting her belly with her other hand. Watching her with children always made something warm bloom in my chest. We’d tried for almost a year before the IVF finally worked, and now here we were, so ready to meet our little one.
“How are you feeling today, mama?” Atlas asked as she rubbed Kelechi’s back.
“I feel perfect,” Kelechi said, bouncing Zara gently. “Though the baby’s been kicking all morning, I think they love the loud music.”
“Aww, that’s how excited they always are. God, I miss my bump,” Atlas replied, and we laughed.
Carmen caught my eye and grinned. “I still can’t believe you two are going to be mums.”
“Neither can I. It’s like a dream, one I don’t ever want to wake up from,” I said.
That night three years ago, when Kelechi had shown up at my house, the day she chose me, chose us, it felt like a lifetime ago. Now we shared everything..our lives, our work, our daily routines, our dreams for our growing family.
“The philosophy department is throwing us a baby shower next month,” she told me as we started walking with the crowd. “Professor Douglas insisted.”
We had decided to make Canada our home, so immediately after completing our degrees, we applied for our postgraduate work permits. The process had been smoother than we’d anticipated, and now, as permanent residents just months away from citizenship, we felt truly settled in our new country.
My position as a lecturer in Philosophy of Mind and Cognitive Science paid well enough to support us both, especially with the consulting work I’d picked up with local non-profits and my trust fund.
Kelechi’s research in Applied Ethics was already generating interest from publishers.
Her latest paper on Applied Ethics and the Boundaries of Moral Obligation had been accepted by a prestigious journal, too.
“Your mum called this morning,” she added. “She wants to FaceTime tonight to see how much the bump has grown.”
“Didn’t she call just two days ago to see the bump?” I said, and we both burst into laughter.
My parents had adored her from the moment they met her. Their love had meant everything to both of us, especially as we dealt with her own family situation.
The silence from her parents had stretched on for three years now. No phone calls, no messages, nothing. It was as if she had ceased to exist the moment she walked out their door.
Her sister Esther was finishing her master’s in Calgary and visited whenever she could, already planning to help when the baby arrived. She was the only bridge left to Kelechi’s family, carefully maintaining relationships on both sides while respecting the painful divide.
Sometimes I caught her staring at her phone, and I knew she was thinking about calling home. About sharing news of the pregnancy, of our marriage, of the life we’d built.
But then she would set the phone aside and reach for my hand instead, choosing the affection that chose her back over the affection that came with impossible conditions.
The loss still ached. I could see it in the way she touched her belly sometimes, a shadow crossing her face as she probably imagined her parents never holding our child.
But we’d created our own family. Found our chosen community. Built something beautiful from the pieces of what had been broken.
We found a spot along the parade route and settled in to watch. I positioned myself behind her, my arms circling her waist and my hands resting on her belly.
She leaned back against me, and I felt the baby give a strong kick against my palm.
“Someone’s active today,” I murmured into her ear.
“They know their mama’s here,” she whispered back, turning her head so I could kiss her temple.
When she turned fully in my arms, her brown eyes meeting mine with that soft smile that still made me forget how to breathe, I felt that familiar surge of gratitude overwhelm me.
“I adore you,” I said suddenly. “Both of you.”
She kissed me slowly, the parade noise fading into background music. Her hands came up to cup my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones in that gentle way that never failed to undo me.
She was bolder now, more confident in her skin, in us.
“Get a room!” Atlas called out, grinning.
“You two can’t get enough of each other,” Carmen added. “Almost four years together and you still act like newlyweds.”
We all laughed.
Two years ago, Kelechi and I got married in a small ceremony in the backyard of our new home, just our closest people surrounding us as we promised forever.
It had been perfect in its intimacy, focusing on what mattered — us, choosing each other again and again.
“My feet are starting to kill me,” she mumbled.
“I promise to give you a foot massage when we get home,” I murmured into her ear, making her laugh.
“And a back rub,” she negotiated. “Your child is using my spine as a jungle gym.”
Home. Our house in Mapleridge had a wraparound porch and garden where she grew herbs for her cooking.
As the parade continued around us, I dropped my hand to rest on the curve of her belly again.
“Who knew,” she said softly, covering my hand with hers, “that I’d fall in love with a green-eyed girl who’d teach me that courage isn’t the absence of fear, but choosing love anyway?”
“What were the odds?” I replied, and she smiled.
I looked at her, this brilliant woman who had walked away from everything safe to build something real with me, and felt that familiar wonder that she was mine.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whispered, kissing her neck. “Pregnancy suits you.”
She blushed, even after all this time. “You’re biased.”
“Completely,” I agreed. “And I care deeply that our kid is going to grow up seeing their mums absolutely crazy about each other.”
“Me too, baby.”
She paused, her expression switching up as she watched a couple nearby: two older women holding hands while a teenage girl painted a rainbow on their cheeks. They looked at each other with such settled devotion it took my breath away.
“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” she said, her voice taking on that thoughtful tone I recognized from our late-night conversations.
I waited, knowing she was gathering her thoughts the way she always did before sharing something important.
“All this research I’m doing on authenticity and moral philosophy,” she continued, her hand absently stroking her belly. “I keep coming back to something.”
“To what”
“To us.”
She gestured between us, then toward Atlas and Carmen, then the parade celebrating love in all its forms around us.
“The way we choose to love one another, even when it terrifies us, even when it costs us everything familiar. I’ve got a hard time believing that it all boils down to just personal courage.”
Her eyes lit up with that spark I had fallen for amongst other things, the one that appeared whenever a new idea took hold in her beautiful mind.
“It’s ethical and it’s moral.”
She turned to face me more fully.
“When we choose authentic desire over imposed obligations, we’re not just living our truth..we’re challenging systems that deny other people theirs. We’re making space for more love to exist in the world.”
I could practically see her mind working, connecting threads the way she did when she was onto something big, so I let her think.
“The ethics of desire,” she said, testing the words. “Living authentically as a moral imperative. I think that might be my next book.”
“The Ethics of Desire.” I said, pride swelling in my chest. “That actually has a nice ring to it.”
She kissed me then, deeper this time, her hand fisting in my shirt to pull me closer despite her belly between us.
Around us, the parade celebrated love in all its forms, Atlas groaned dramatically about our public displays of affection, and baby Zara clapped her hands at the bright balloons floating overhead.
The ethics of desire. I smiled against her lips, thinking about how that brilliant mind of hers could turn our pain into purpose, our love into something that might give other people permission to choose themselves.
But then I caught her glancing at her phone again, that familiar shadow crossing her face. Even here, surrounded by celebration and community, part of her was thinking about the family who should be here, who should be meeting their grandchild in three months.
“Hey,” I said softly, catching her chin with my finger. “You okay?”
She nodded, but I saw the truth in her eyes. The joy was real, but so was the grief. They lived side by side in her now, and maybe they always would.
“I just wish…” she started, then stopped.
“I know.” I pressed my forehead against hers. “And maybe someday they’ll surprise us. But if they don’t, we have this. We have Atlas, Carmen, Zara, and your sister. We also have my parents and this little one.” I touched her belly. “We have a family, baby.”
She took a shaky breath and nodded, leaning into me.
As I held her there, our chosen family around us and our child growing between us, I realised something. This wasn’t the end of our story, it was just the end of the beginning.
The part where we learnt that love isn’t about finding someone who completes you. It’s about finding someone brave enough to build something new with you, even when the foundation is shaky, even when you’re both still learning how to be whole.
The ethics of desire, I thought as she settled back into my arms. Maybe that was it. Maybe choosing love, choosing authenticity, choosing each other every single day despite our fears and scars and the family members who turned away, maybe that was the most moral thing we would ever do.
THE END.