Two Years Later
The morning light spilled through the windows, golden and quiet, touching everything with a kind of softness I never thought I'd get to have.
Aurora was running barefoot down the hall, her wild curls bouncing, pajamas mismatched and her laughter echoing off the walls. She was two now — all curiosity and chaos and stubborn sweetness. My heart existed wherever she was.
I sipped my coffee, leaning against the doorway, watching Dominic trail after her with a toy crown in one hand and a juice box in the other.
"She bit the pancake again and said it looked like a turtle," he said, deadpan, holding up the mangled piece.
"She's a visionary," I replied.
He caught my eyes — and even now, even after everything, that look still melted me.
We had done it.
We had rebuilt something neither of us had words for.
It hadn't been perfect. There were hard nights. Therapy sessions. Deep conversations where silence said more than yelling ever did.
But love came back.
Not fast. Not shiny. But real.
Now, I wore a ring I actually chose. A home I helped build. A family that wasn't a performance — it was ours.
Aurora came barreling back into the room with the toy crown on upside down, shouting, "I'm the queen!" before climbing into Dominic's lap like he belonged to her.
And he did.
He kissed her forehead, then looked at me.
"So," he said. "Breakfast round two?"
I nodded. "Only if you let her behead you with the toy sword again."
"I'd die a thousand times," he muttered with a straight face, making Aurora cackle.
I smiled and crossed the room.
We weren't perfect.
But we were whole.
And for the first time in forever, I knew this wasn't just survival.
It was joy.
It was family.
It was love.
And it was ours.
Forever.