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How could I be, when I look at my sons and know how easily life can slip sideways? How even love, the strongest thing in the world, can get lost under the weight of pride and fear and mistakes?

If there was ever a rift between me and Kingston or Kody someday—no matter whose fault it was—I know, without a doubt, that nothing would matter more to me than finding my way back to them.

Loving them would always matter more than being right.

And maybe that’s what growing up really is.

Not pretending the past didn’t happen.

But deciding it doesn’t get to write the ending.

I blink up at my dad, the sunlight catching in his silver hair, and I offer a small smile. “Yeah,” I say, voice steady. “I want to see her.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the second he brought it up.

“She’s at the coffee shop,” he says. “Your sisters are with her.”

The mention of my sisters makes my heart squeeze tight.

There are still gaps between us—awkward silences where history doesn’t quite know how to catch up—but maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s time to stop being a ghost in their lives. To stop being a scar they don’t know how to talk about.

Maybe it’s time to start something instead of letting the past be the only thing we share.

We head back toward the car, the wheels crunching slowly over the gravel as my dad pulls away from the cemetery.

I twist my fingers together in my lap, feeling the slow, steady thud of my own heartbeat. Not fear. Not anger.

Just hope.

Hope for second chances. For small beginnings that can turn into something stronger, steadier, real.

Because if there’s one thing Kingston taught me, if there’s one thing the twins have carved into my bones, it’s this:

Love isn’t perfect.

It’s choosing to show up, even when it’s messy.

It’s reaching out, even when you’re scared.

It’s building something new, even when you know it could break.

I glance out the window, the town blurring past, and press my palm to the tiny place just above my heart.

I’m ready now.

The bell over the door jingles when Dad and I step inside the coffee shop.

It’s a small place, cozy and humming with low conversation and the sharp, comforting scent of fresh espresso. There’s a fireplace crackling in the far corner, casting a buttery glow over the tables and chairs scattered haphazardly like old friends pulling close.

I spot them immediately.

They’re seated near the back, a corner booth tucked just out of the way. My mom, her hands wrapped around a ceramic mug like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. Isabel, polished and perfect in that effortless way she’s always had, her wedding ring catching the light when she brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. And Sofia—wide-eyed and fresh-faced, her college sweatshirt drowning her shoulders, looking somehow both grown up and impossibly young all at once.

They look up as the bell jingles.

The air shifts.

For half a second, none of us move.