35. Epilogue

Chapter thirty-five

Epilogue

Liam

Our first Thanksgiving in Dublin, and this moment has to go right.

I'm on my knees, scrub brush in hand, attacking a stubborn stain on the living room carpet.

"Damn cranberry sauce," I mutter as the red smudge finally starts to fade under my assault.

There's a sense of satisfaction in getting the house ready, making it presentable for the family. It's been four months since little Aoife (pronounced ‘EE-fa’) came into our world, turning our lives upside down in the best way possible. Four months since Shiloh and I stood in front of a judge and promised ourselves to each other with just the barest hint of tradition.

I’ve never been happier… even scrubbing a stain on the carpet.

The scent of lemon cleaner fills the air, mixing with the faint aroma of baby powder that seems to have permeated every corner of the house. I stand, surveying the room. It looks good—lived-in but cared for—like us.

I push the kitchen door open, where the smell of lemon cleaner still lingers, a subtle testament to my earlier efforts. The voices of Shiloh and Nadia drift to me, wrapped up in a dance of intellectual debate and casual camaraderie.

"… and then if you consider the feminist perspective within that historical context," Shiloh is saying, her voice animated and full of passion.

Nadia counters with equal fervor, "Absolutely, but don't forget about the underlying post-colonial narrative at play."

I lean against the doorframe, unnoticed. Aoife's tiny hand flails out from the cocoon of her mother's embrace as she nurses contentedly. I can't help but smile at the sight before me—my little family immersed in a world of knowledge and warmth.

Shiloh's gaze suddenly lifts and finds mine. Her face lights up, that smile I fell for four years ago spreading across her lips. She whispers something to Aoife, who's too busy feeding to pay any mind.

"Hey," she greets, her voice soft yet clear across the room.

"Hey yourself," I reply, stepping into the space they've created, filled with books and baby paraphernalia.

"Is everyone here already?" Nadia asks, craning her neck to look past me toward the empty hallway.

"Not yet, but soon. My mom and Libby should be landing any minute now," I inform her, checking my phone for any missed calls or messages.

"Need anything before they get here?" Nadia offers, already half-standing. “I was going to run to the store—”

"No, we're all set." I assure her, "But thanks, Nadia."

She grins, her eyes crinkling at the corners, "Still…I'll leave you two to it, just so you have a moment to breathe. This place is about to get a whole lot noisier." With a wink that suggests she knows just how precious quiet moments are for new parents, she grabs her coat and heads out the door.

As soon as we hear the soft click of the door closing behind her, I cross the room to Shiloh's side. The sight of Aoife in her arms always stirs something deep within me—a blend of awe and reverence for the life we've created together.

Her blonde locks are just like her mother’s, and when I look into those baby blues—flecked with hints of hazel—I see a future filled with love and chaos.

"Look at her hair," I murmur, unable to resist gently running my fingers over the soft wisps. "Just like yours."

Shiloh smiles, her attention shifting from our daughter back to me. "And her eyes...starting to look like yours might be in there somewhere."

"Maybe." I chuckle softly, still mesmerized by the way Aoife's tiny mouth works as she nurses. Love wells up inside me, so potent it nearly aches. "I can't believe she's ours, you know?"

Shiloh nods, her hand coming up to cradle Aoife's head more securely. "Every day with her feels like a little miracle."

We sit there in silence, savoring the tranquility before the family arrives. It's in these quiet moments that I remember just how far we've come—from a whirlwind one-night stand to accidental pregnancy, courthouse vows, and now this: a peaceful afternoon in Dublin with our daughter.

"Hey," Shiloh says, catching my gaze with her warm brown eyes, "four years today since we met."

"Four years since everything changed." My voice is soft and thick with emotion. I reach up, my thumb grazing over her lower lip, a move that feels as familiar as it does thrilling. "How could I forget?"

Her lips part slightly at the touch, and before I can second-guess the impulse, I lean in and kiss her. It's slow and tender, a stark contrast to the urgency that's been thrumming between us lately.

Ever since we've started finding our way back to each other in the bedroom, post-baby, there's been this insatiable hunger.

She moans softly against my lips, the sound sending a jolt straight through me. "Liam," she breathes out, and I can feel the heat of her flush against my skin.

"Family will be here for a couple days," I murmur against her mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. "No time for this now."

Shiloh nods, biting her lip—a gesture that never fails to entice me. "Maybe we can sneak away for a few moments later?" Her voice is hopeful, laced with that hunger I know all too well.

The ring of the doorbell shatters the brief calm that had enveloped us. Aoife's startled cry fills the room as she pulls away from Shiloh, her tiny face scrunching up in surprise and then distress.

"Hey, hey," I soothe, reaching out to stroke Aoife's downy head. Beside me, Shiloh shifts, gently coaxing our daughter back into the comfort of her arms.

"Shh, little one," Shiloh murmurs, her voice a soft lullaby that seems to work its magic on Aoife. Together, we rock her, the rhythm familiar and calming. Slowly, her cries subside, turning into quiet whimpers as peace returns to her small form.

I look up at Shiloh, our eyes meeting over the top of Aoife's head.

"Guess it's time to let the family in," I say, my voice a mix of reluctance and acceptance. The chaos of family gatherings is about to descend upon our quiet sanctuary, but there's warmth in the thought too—new memories waiting to be made.

"New traditions, remember?" Shiloh nods, a smile tugging at her lips even as she continues to comfort Aoife.

She's right; this is what we wanted when we decided to host a small group of our family here in Dublin, where our whirlwind life together had brought us.

"Right." I stand, brushing a kiss on both their foreheads before heading toward the door. "New traditions."

New traditions to replace the old—love and hope to replace pain.

That’s what Shiloh brought to my life… and I’m incredibly grateful she’s mine.