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“I just—it’s shitty timing. Obviously.”
Sydney is quiet for several minutes. I rock the baby, relieved she keeps sleeping. Giving her time to absorb the news on what’s already been a crazy night.
“Do you think it’s weird if I name her Lana?” she asks suddenly.
I glance up, taken aback. “The baby? Name her after Mom?”
“I’ve always thought it was a pretty name. And I…you were right. She was our mom. Whatever her flaws and mistakes, that was always true. Maybe she’s in a better place now. Maybe she’s with Dad, before everything between them got messed up. Either way, she’s gone. Maybe this is a fresh start. I was going to name her Joseph, after Dad, if she’d been a boy.”
“I don’t think it’s weird,” I say. I’ve thought, since my dad died, that I’d probably name a son after him too. “I think she would have been touched. She just wouldn’t have known how to tell you that.”
Sydney sniffles. “Yeah.”
The baby—Lana—blinks. “She’s waking up,” I say.
Sydney holds her arms out. “I’ll take her. Can you go get Cassia? And Harrison if he wants to come back in?”
“Yeah, of course.”
I hand my niece back, then head for the door. Sneak one glance back at Sydney staring down at her daughter.
A new beginning.
EPILOGUE
CASSIA
Iroll over, burying my face in soft cotton. Inhale deeply, pulling in the scent of lavender laundry detergent and cinnamon.
For the first time in a while, I feel well-rested. My eyes don’t feel gritty and dry. My head isn’t swimming with exhaustion.
I crack one eye open, nothing but white fabric in front of me. Flop one arm over onto the cool material, my fingers dragging across the soft surface.
“Holden?” I croak.
There’s no response.
I sit up, clearing my throat as I twist my hair up in a bun. Rubbing my eyes, I toss off the comforter and climb out of bed. My slippers are right where I left them by the dresser. I shove my feet into them and then shuffle into the attached bathroom to run through my morning routine.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee fills my nose as soon as I reach the bottom of the stairs. I pick up the two toys on the bottom stair and toss them toward the couch, then continue into the kitchen.
When I went to bed, the counters were dirty, and dishes were piled in the sink. It was a long day with Joey, and I was running on a serious sleep deficit.
Now, every surface gleams. The coffee pot is full.
I grab a mug out of the cabinet and fill it almost to the brim. Then pull the milk carton out of the fridge to top off the coffee. The first sip is heavenly, hot but also refreshing.
The muted bounce of a basketball draws me toward the back door. I step out onto the deck, fall’s chill stamped in the wooden boards and stinging my bare feet.
Holden is standing in the center of the driveway, dribbling, with Joey perched on his shoulders. Our son shrieks when he shoots, grabbing his hair with tiny, strong fingers. Holden doesn’t even flinch as he retrieves the ball from the row of bushes that line our driveway. It’s been a year since he played basketball professionally. But of course it goes in.
I blow on my coffee and then take another sip.
Holden makes another shot. This time, Joey laughs and claps his little hands together. Then he spots me, and his claps turn into waves.
“Mama!”
Holden turns this way, holding tight to Joey’s legs. He grins at me, flashing the smirk that’s never lost its effectiveness.
