Violet lifts her right arm slightly.
“I think this is Peyton.”
“Because she was born first?”
“Yeah.” Vi nods, smiling wide and gorgeously. “She was like, look out—coming through.”
She turns her attention to our daughter in her left arm.
“Whereas Hailey over here . . . ”
“Was happy to hang back, enjoy the womb a little while longer,” I finish for her.
“Exactly.”
We gave them floral middle names in honor of Violet’s mom.
She kisses each baby’s nose and whispers, “Welcome to the world, Peyton Rose and Hailey Iris.”
My heart pounds and my chest squeezes, because I’m so blown away by her . . . I always have been. By her strength and her beauty and the exquisite joy she brings into my life, just by being all that she is.
My voice is raw, humbled. “I love you, Violet.”
I’ll never not love her—I’ll never stop being grateful for her.
She turns to me, smiling.
“I love you too, Connor. Just when I think I love you as much as I possibly can . . . you go and make me love you more.”
I kiss her lips, long and slow. And then I run my fingertip across the powdery softness of our daughters’ cheeks.
“Look at our sweet girls,” I whisper.
They own me already . . . just like their mom.
And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
EPILOGUE TWO
Connor
Six months later
On a warm, fall, Saturday night, Garrett and Callie have us over to their house for dinner.
My brother’s still flying high about the Lakeside Lions’ blow-out victory the night before and Dean’s happy to kick back and relax after taking Lainey and their daughter on tour with his band down the Jersey shore all summer.
Violet and I are pretty psyched too. With the boys’ extracurriculars going full speed ahead and two new babies in the house—we don’t get out much.
“Peyyyyton,” Spencer groans with patient exhaustion.
Because we’re out on the back patio, overlooking the lake, and my daughter has just dropped her plastic, multicolored toy keys over the side of her Exersaucer for the millionth time. Spencer takes his newfound big-brother responsibilities very seriously . . . but everybody has their breaking point.
Still, Spencer dutifully retrieves the keys and puts them on the tray in front of his baby sister.
And Peyton immediately tosses them over the side.
Again.
Then she lets out one of those, deep, loud, full-bellied baby giggles and everyone within earshot laughs out loud right along with her.
Because that sound is the Borg in audio form—resistance is futile.
Violet hit the bullseye when she named our daughters and guessed at their dispositions. They’re both preciously gorgeous with dark hair and their mother’s big, brown, heart-owning eyes. And Vi says they both have my smile—but their personalities couldn’t be more different.
Peyton is demanding and mischievous, precocious and full of endless energy.
Hailey reminds me of Brayden when he was a baby—calm and thoughtful, low maintenance and content. Even now, she lies on a blanket on the grass a few feet away, gazing up at the sky and happily sucking on her big toe.
“How long can she do this?” Spencer asks, after yet another round of pick-up-the-keys-servant-brother.
“Forever,” Violet tells him.
Then she laughs. “It’s okay, Spence—you can go—I’ll take over.”
Violet is exactly the same kind of mother as she is a person—selfless and warm, strong and sensible, kind and gentle and amazingly loving.
“Thank you, Violet,” Spence sighs, giving her a high five. “I owe you.”
And he runs over to the firepit where Brayden, Aaron, and Lainey’s son, Jason—who are both home for the weekend—are roasting hot dogs and talking about college and cars.
On the other end of the patio, Lainey watches Dean tossing a football with Garrett and Callie’s son, Will. Beside her little Charlotte and Ava sing an adorably jumbled lullaby and push a baby stroller gently back and forth together.
A stroller that contains Lucy—Dean’s grandmother’s black cat.
To hear Dean tell it, Lucy attempts to maim him on a regular basis—but Dean’s daughter, Ava, can do no wrong—which explains the eyelet baby bonnet the formerly feral feline is currently comfortably sporting.
Garrett and Callie are at the grill—holding hands and occasionally kissing in between flipping steaks and sipping wine. And their never-not-happy golden retriever, Woody, lies at their feet.
I gaze out over the water and the surrounding trees that are just getting their autumn colors.
It’s Violet’s favorite time of day. The sun is going down, lighting up the whole lake with swirls of bright orange, pink and gold, and light shades of purple.
And it’s a good night . . . a good life.
A beautiful life—for all of us—in a great little town, filled with the best kinds of people.
They say home is where the heart is, and that statement is totally true.
But sometimes, if you’re lucky, it works both ways . . . and you find your heart right where your home’s been all along.