Anders’ Epilogue
ANDERS’ EPILOGUE
“Did you choose which charity we’re donating to?” Parker asks me.
Morning light spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows in pale ribbons of gold, washing the bedroom in that soft, hazy glow that only exists before the city fully wakes up.
Somewhere below us, Manhattan hums quietly beneath the penthouse—distant traffic, a siren fading into nothing, the muffled rhythm of life continuing outside our little bubble.
Beside me, Parker is laid flat on his back like a corpse in an expensive coffin, arms crossed over his chest and legs perfectly straight.
Lately he’s been doing this weird thing where he sleeps like a mummy.
Apparently it’s a new meditative practice meant to improve circulation or spinal alignment or whatever health obsession he picked up this month.
Personally, I think he’s just terrified of aging.
The man isn’t even fifty yet and he’s already panic-buying retinol, collagen powder, and hair-growth serums like the grim reaper personally scheduled him an appointment.
I keep telling him that as long as he still has most of his hair, we don’t have a problem.
“The Trevor Project,” I answer sleepily.
One of his eyes cracks open. “We did The Trevor Project last month.”
“Okay?” I scoff. “It’s my money.”
“Through marriage,” he mutters, finally turning his head toward me. “Have you been putting arsenic in my green juice?”
“No,” I say thoughtfully, winking. “That’s too obvious.”
The bed shifts as he sits up with a groan, rolling one shoulder before cracking his back loud enough to echo through the room. “So old,” I murmur.
“So old,” he sighs dramatically. “In fact, since you’re so young, you can go make your kids breakfast.”
I snort. “My kids? Really, Pet’ka?”
He grins lazily, sunlight catching the silver threading through his temples. “You were the one who wanted one.”
“I said I wanted a dog,” I correct. “You were the one who disappeared for a weekend and came home emotionally attached to three entire human beings.”
“They keep me young.”
“You used to say that about me.”
“You stopped being cute the moment you turned thirty.”
I stare at him flatly. “Happy birthday to me, I guess.”
“You stopped being hot the moment you started balding,” I shoot back.
Parker looks genuinely offended. “Baby, I’m not balding.”
“You’re not looking hard enough.”
“You are a piece of work,” he says, shaking his head, though he’s smiling when he leans over me.
His hand slides along my jaw, thumb brushing beneath my chin with that same impossible gentleness that still undoes me.
After all these years, Parker touching me like I’m precious still makes something warm unravel in my chest.
“I love you, Anderson,” he whispers against my forehead. “Stay in bed, birthday boy. I’ll bring you breakfast.”
I roll my eyes immediately. “Please don’t set off the smoke alarm again.”
“There he is,” he smirks. “Bossy husband.”
“You like it.”
“Guess I do. Haven’t scared me away yet.”
I huff. “Well, the moment you start balding, I’m taking my children and Benito and we’re running.”
Benny’s ears perk up the moment he hears his name. Parker gives him a rigid look, because apparently I love the dog more than I love him…
He whistles and snaps his fingers. “C’mon, Benny.” That immediately gets him excited, because he thinks it’s time for a R-U-N…
Parker and my dog both disappear down the hallway, and I stare at the ceiling, listening to the apartment wake around me—the distant clang of cabinets, Parker swearing under his breath in Russian, tiny feet thundering somewhere across the hardwood floors.
Any time Parker cooks, my brain automatically prepares for catastrophe. A few years ago he decided it would be romantic to make hibachi from scratch, which ended in a minor kitchen fire and the building concierge threatening to revoke our grill privileges forever.
Now we have children. Children who are, unfortunately, very flammable. Candles are banned. Sparklers are heavily supervised. Parker is not allowed near cooking oil without adult supervision.
A few minutes later, the bedroom door bursts open.
“Happy birthday, Daddy!” Two curly-haired missiles launch themselves onto the bed before I can even brace for impact.
Nayah and Natalia climb all over me at once, all warm skin and tangled curls and sleepy morning voices.
Their laughter fills the room so completely it feels alive, bouncing off the walls and settling somewhere deep in my ribs.
When Parker and I first got together, we agreed immediately that we didn’t want kids.
Parker didn’t want the responsibility. And me—I was selfish enough to want every piece of him for myself.
Then three years ago he flew back to D.C. for a Sentinels charity event focused on foster care outreach, and halfway through the weekend Aviva called me sounding deeply amused.
“Just warning you,” she said. “Your husband is about thirty seconds away from becoming a father.”
I remember expecting panic. Fear. Some certainty our lives would implode. Instead, when Parker came home with red-rimmed eyes and that devastated, hopeful expression, all I felt was certainty.
Like our lives had been waiting for them the whole time.
A’Nayah and Anatalia turn nine next month. Nayah is already thriving in ballet—graceful, disciplined, impossible determination—while Natalia has decided she’s going to be the next Alysa Liu and spends half her life spinning in the living room on her little turning pad.
“I hope Papa didn’t burn down the kitchen,” I laugh as they suffocate me with hugs. “You’re getting too strong for this,” I groan, holding them anyway.
We hear Anton before we see him. With Benny at his side, he comes barreling into the room wearing a Miles Morales suit, oversized Hulk gloves, and a Captain America shield strapped to his back like he’s personally assembled the Avengers himself.
Ant just turned five, and Parker had him on skates basically the second we brought the kid home. But he’s more like me than Parker realizes—always carrying books too big for him, already reading well above his grade level.
He launches himself onto the bed and growls a ferocious “happy birthday” into my ear before smashing his fists together.
“You guys are the best,” I laugh, kissing the girls’ heads. “C’mere, Ant. I want my hug.”
“Daddy,” he protests seriously. “I’m Hulk.”
“Okay, Hulk,” I say solemnly. “Come give me a hug before I call Iron Man.”
That does it. I trap him against my chest and blow a raspberry into his cheek until he shrieks with laughter.
From the doorway, Parker watches us quietly, a tray balanced in his hands. Sometimes I still can’t believed this is where we ended up.
Sunlight spilling across rumpled sheets. Three laughing curly-haired babies. Parker standing barefoot in the doorway looking at me like he’s won the lottery. And Benito.
“Fatin just got here, by the way,” he says. “I thought you said you weren’t working today.”
Fatin and Lee live in our building, which is perfect because Lee is my lawyer and Fatin is my crisis PR manager. “We have to discuss PR,” I groan. “Some YouTube girl made an hour-long video essay about controversial authors and used my face in the thumbnail, so somebody’s getting sued…”
I probably should’ve expected that when I published Twisted Needs. Turns out marrying Parker and writing morally questionable characters inspired by him tends to make people online lose their minds.
Most headlines still introduce me as “controversial author Anderson de Sousa.”
Parker and I stopped caring years ago. Any press is good press…but I will not have my face posted all over YouTube for my children to see while some bitch talks shit about their fathers.
He sighs sympathetically. “My poor sweet victim.”
“The only thing I’m a victim of is your breath-right strip attacking me in my sleep.”
“Yeah, Papa,” Nayah agrees. “It’s gross.”
“Watch it, Princess,” Parker warns. “Daddy told you to be nice to me.”
“Because we can’t be mean to old people,” Natalia says matter-of-factly. Definitely my daughter.
Parker gasps like he’s been mortally wounded while Anton climbs onto his back like a feral raccoon and growls into his ear. I sit in the middle of the bed trying not to laugh too hard as syrup sticks to my fingers and sunlight warms my skin and the people I love most nearly crush me to death.
Absolutely perfect.
And somewhere in the middle of all the noise, Parker catches my eye again. There’s a softness there that still undoes me after all this time. The certainty of it lands exactly where it always has.
“Thank you for my amazing breakfast,” I tell my family, looking at the plate of cold scrambled eggs and approximately fifteen syrup-drowned pancakes. “You guys are very sweet.”
“You’re welcome, Daddy,” the girls chorus.
Anton raises both Hulk fists. “Hulk made pancakes.”
“That explains a lot,” I mutter.
Parker laughs under his breath, and I look around at all of them—our daughters giggling against my sides, Anton slamming his fists together, Parker smiling at me with sleep still in his eyes—and it hits me again with startling clarity.
For most of my life, love felt hard to come by, like it could vanish the moment I reached for it.
But this isn’t that. Sometimes it feels like a prison.
A perfect, loving prison I never want to leave.
And as Parker climbs back into bed beside me, tangling our legs together while the kids argue over pancakes and who gets to walk Benny first, I realize something simple.
Maybe happiness was never meant to feel extraordinary. Maybe it was always meant to feel like this—warm sunlight, too much noise, someone you love reaching for your hand without thinking.
And a life so full it no longer leaves room for fear.