Epilogue
Chapter twenty-two
Three Months Later…
Saturday mornings used to be quiet.
Coffee. Maybe a run. Maybe the gym.
Now Saturday mornings look like a breakfast crime scene.
Pancake batter on the counter.
Syrup on the table.
A dog committing theft.
"Daisy!" Maddie shouts.
Too late.
The dog has already escaped with a full strip of bacon hanging from her mouth like a victory flag.
"Hey! That was my bacon," I say.
Maddie shrugs from the kitchen stool.
"You should guard it better, Daddy," she says.
Natalie laughs from the coffee machine.
That laugh still gets me.
Not in a dramatic, fall-to-your-knees way.
Just the quiet kind of moment where you catch yourself thinking, yeah, this is my life now. And I like it.
Natalie.
In my kitchen.
In my life.
She pours coffee into two mugs and slides one toward me across the counter.
The mug says WORLD'S OKAYEST HUSBAND.
Dex gave it to her as a wedding gift.
He thought it was hilarious.
Natalie still thinks it’s hilarious.
I take the mug.
"I still think we should burn this," I say.
"You say that every morning," Natalie replies.
"Because every morning I wake up disrespected in my own home."
"You’re being dramatic before caffeine again," she says.
"I’m being bullied by novelty ceramics. Courtesy of Dex."
She smiles into her coffee. "And yet you keep drinking from it."
"That’s survival."
She steps closer, one hand sliding over my shoulder as she leans in to kiss my cheek.
"Love you," she says casually.
Like she’s reminding me the weather exists.
"Love you too," I say.
Three months ago that sentence would have knocked the wind out of me.
Now it feels like breathing.
Natural.
Necessary.
Mine.
Daisy trots past us again with the bacon.
Maddie gasps.
"She’s eating it!"
"It’s gone," Natalie says, peering over the counter. "Moment of silence."
"For my breakfast," I mutter.
Maddie grins.
"Dad lost to a dog."
"This house has no respect for me," I say.
Natalie takes a sip of coffee.
"You’re dramatic."
"I’m hungry."
"Both can be true," she says.
Maddie points her fork at me.
"Are you both coming to my hockey practice today?"
"No," I say. "We’re canceling because your father was victimized at breakfast."
She narrows her eyes.
"That’s not a real reason."
"Feels real to me," I say jokingly.
Natalie opens the fridge, pulls out the backup bacon she bought after learning we live with thieves.
"Good news," she says. "I planned for male incompetence and canine crime."
"Really, male incompetence? More like very big dog. You're very disrespectful for a woman wearing my hoodie."
She glances down at herself.
Oversized charcoal hoodie.
Bare legs.
Messy hair.
No makeup.
She's never looked sexier.
"Our hoodie," she corrects.
I step forward and pull her into a quick hug.
Maddie groans dramatically.
"Can you guys be weird later? I have skating."
Natalie laughs again.
I flip the new bacon into the pan.
"Unbelievable," I mutter.
"You love us," Maddie says.
Natalie glances at Daisy licking the floor where the bacon used to be.
"All of us," she says.
"You’ve got that right, kid," I tell Maddie.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Outlaws group chat.
Which means nonsense.
Dex: Shelly scored two yesterday.
Colby: Three if you count the one he banked off Mason’s skate.
Jonah: Married life unlocked a new skill tree.
Dex: Confirmed. Shelly smiling during practice now.
Colby: It’s unsettling.
Dex: He even passed the puck.
I type with one hand.
You idiots realize I’ve always been good, right?
Dex: No.
Bryce: Natalie fixed you.
Colby: Marriage looks good on you.
Dex: He’s more chill.
Mason: Less grumpy.
Dex: Still not as good looking as I am.
I type:
Some of you assholes wish you had someone like Natalie.
Dex: Correct.
Bryce: Dex wouldn’t know how to handle that.
Mason: That would be weird for me.
Bobby: He'd fall in love and immediately panic.
Dex: Gentlemen, you underestimate me.
I add...
Careful. Keep talking about my wife and she’s going to make you idiots sit through one of her three-hour HR compliance workshops.
Dex: Three hours? I’m not emotionally prepared for that.
Colby: Don’t worry. We’ll bring crayons to keep you occupied.
Bryce: Don’t eat the crayons this time, Dex.
Dex: Maybe Natalie will come give the team pep talks?
"Jesus, Dex," I chuckle out loud, and then write:
Keep talking about my wife and we’re going to have a problem.
Dex: Shelly defending his wife before 9 AM. Protective. Hot.
I type again...
Going to eat breakfast. See you clowns later.
I mute the chat.
Natalie watches me over her mug.
"Team harassment?"
"Standard," I say.
"What’s the verdict?"
"Apparently married life made me better at hockey."
Maddie looks deeply offended on my behalf.
"You were already good at hockey," she says.
"Thank you," I say. "See? Someone in this house respects me."
Natalie reaches over and steals a piece of fresh bacon straight off my plate.
"Incorrect," she says.
"Not you too," I say.
Maddie laughs so hard she almost spills syrup on herself.
Saturday mornings.
Coffee mugs.
Lost bacon.
Group chat abuse.
Maddie yelling about skating practice from the kitchen table.
This is my life.
And I didn’t know I could want a life this badly until I had it.
Maddie hops off the stool.
"Time to go!"
Kids have exactly zero patience.
Natalie checks the clock.
"While your dad and I finish breakfast, go brush your teeth. Then helmet. Gloves. Jacket," she says.
Maddie groans dramatically and stomps toward the hallway.
Natalie watches her go, then glances back at me.
"I used to sleep in on Saturdays," she says.
"Yeah," I say. "But isn’t this better?"
She smiles softly.
"Yeah," she says. "It is."
I plate the last batch of pancakes. Natalie packs a water bottle, extra socks, and exactly fourteen things Maddie would absolutely forget if left to her own devices. Daisy stations herself by the back door and watches us with intense betrayal, as if the family outing should obviously include her.
"You're not going," Natalie tells the dog.
Daisy sits.
Then lies down with a dramatic sigh.
"She gets that from you," Natalie says.
"False. I’m dignified."
"You pouted over bacon ten minutes ago."
"That was righteous indignation."
Maddie comes barreling back in with one glove on, one glove missing, helmet crooked.
"Where’s my other guard?"
"In your skate bag by the front door," Natalie says immediately.
"Where’s my pink hair tie?"
"Wrapped around your water bottle."
"Where’s—"
"If you ask one more question before checking your bag," Natalie says, "I’m taking a pancake tax."
Maddie gasps.
"You can’t tax breakfast."
"Watch me," Natalie says.
I bite back a laugh.
Three months later and I’m still impressed by how seamlessly she runs this house without ever turning into someone smaller inside it.
That mattered to me from the start.
Still does.
She didn’t disappear into my life.
She expanded it.
***
Ten minutes later we’re finally in the car.
Maddie is talking nonstop in the backseat about skating drills, lap counts, which girl in her class cheats at relays, and why Coach Amy’s whistle is too aggressive in the morning.
Natalie steals a look at me from the passenger seat.
I catch it.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," she says.
Which means something.
She smiles anyway.
I reach over at a red light and squeeze her knee.
She covers my hand with hers.
Maddie is still talking.
"And if we do backward swizzles today, I’m definitely better than Lily now because last week she kept leaning weird and... Daddy, are you listening?"
"Always," I say.
"Okay good. Because this part is important."
Everything is important when you’re seven.
The rink parking lot is already in full swing.
Minivans.
Coffee cups.
Tiny hockey bags bigger than the children carrying them.
Inside, the air hits cold and sharp. Rubber mats. Wet laces. That faint smell of ice and metal and old arena coffee.
It’s not glamorous.
It’s perfect.
Maddie drops her bag on the bench in the kids’ changing area and starts digging through it like she packed for a two-week expedition instead of a one-hour skating practice.
"I can’t find my other glove."
Natalie reaches into the side pocket without looking and pulls it out.
"Magic," Maddie says.
"Competence," Natalie replies.
A few of the other parents say hi.
One dad gives me the nod men give each other in rinks everywhere. Half greeting. Half caffeine-based survival pact.
Maddie plops down on the bench and thrusts one skate toward me.
"Dad."
"Yeah?"
"Lace me up."
I kneel in front of her.
Pick up the skate.
Thread the laces through.
Pull them snug.
Her little foot wiggles impatiently.
"Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You absolutely are not."
Natalie leans against the boards watching us, arms folded, smiling like this scene is better than television.
"You’re both lying," she says.
"Support your husband," I tell her.
"Support your daughter," she shoots back.
Maddie points at Natalie.
"Exactly."
Traitors.
I tighten the first skate, then the second.
Cross the laces.
Pull.
Thread.
Pull again.
Double knot.
Secure.
Maddie watches every move like this is sacred ritual.
Maybe it is.
When I was a kid, my dad laced mine the same way.
Tight enough to trust.
Strong enough to hold.
No hesitation.
I tap the toe of her skate.
"How’s that?"
She flexes her ankle.
"Good."
Then more firmly, because she’s my daughter and drama lives in her bones, "Perfect."
She stands. Tests the blades on the rubber mat.
Then throws both arms around my neck hard enough to nearly knock me sideways.
"Thanks, Daddy."
There are moments in life when a man understands he’d commit actual felonies for the people in front of him.
This is one of those moments.
I kiss the top of her helmet.
"Go have fun," I tell her.
"I always do," she says.
Then she runs toward the door in that half-fast, half-wild way kids do when they think they’re already Olympians.
Natalie comes to stand beside me.
Our shoulders touch.
Warm against cold.
We watch Maddie step onto the ice with the rest of the kids.
There’s chatter. Whistles. Parents shifting on metal benches. A little boy crying because his mitten is wet. Someone’s younger sibling dropping Goldfish crackers on the floor. Life. Loud and ordinary and somehow exactly the kind that sneaks up on you.
Natalie slips her hand into mine.
No fanfare.
No look-at-us moment.
Just her hand in mine like it’s always supposed to be there.
I tighten my grip without thinking.
I glance sideways.
She’s watching Maddie, but she feels me looking.
Her mouth curves.
"What?" she asks quietly.
"Nothing," I say.
Which means everything.
Because three months ago I was trying to hold my life together with legal paperwork, panic, and a prayer that I wasn’t going to lose the most important person I had.
Now I’m standing in a freezing rink on a Saturday morning holding my wife’s hand while my daughter skates in crooked little circles and grins at us through the glass.
The thing about happiness is that when you’re younger, you think it’s going to arrive loud.
Big win.
Big speech.
Big moment.
But this?
This is quiet.
This is bacon theft and coffee mugs and group chats full of idiots.
This is Natalie stealing my breakfast and my last name and somehow making both feel like fair trades.
This is Maddie yelling for me to tie her skates because she already trusts I’ll do it right.
This is the kind of life that doesn’t need a spotlight to matter.
Maddie circles back toward the boards and taps the glass with one gloved hand.
"Watch this!" she yells.
Every parent in the building watches because children assume the world exists to witness them.
She pushes off.
Arms a little wild.
Balance a little shaky.
Heart all the way in it.
She makes the turn.
Stays up.
Looks over at us like she just conquered Everest.
Natalie laughs.
I laugh too.
Her hand is still in mine.
And just like that, it hits me all over again.
Coach was right.
When your life is laced up right…
you just skate forward.