My mother went through it.

I went through it.

I’ll be damned if I allow my daughter to go through it.

I kiss her on the forehead and make her a promise. “It stops here. With me and you. It ends with us.”

Epilogue

I push through the crowds of Boylston Street until I get to the cross street. I pull the stroller to a crawl and then stop at the edge of the curb. I pull the top of it back and look down at Emmy. She’s kicking her feet and smiling like usual. She’s a very happy baby. She has a calm energy about her and it’s addictive.

“How old is she?” a woman asks. She’s standing at the crosswalk with us, staring down at Emerson appreciatively.

“Eleven months.”

“She’s gorgeous,” she says. “Looks just like you. Identical mouths.”

I smile. “Thank you. But you should see her father. She definitely has his eyes.”

The sign flashes to walk, and I try to beat the crowd as we rush across the street. I’m already half an hour late and Ryle has texted me twice. He hasn’t experienced the joy of carrots yet, though. He’ll find out today just how messy they are, because I packed plenty in her bag.

I moved out of the apartment Ryle bought when Emerson was three months old. I got my own place closer to my work so I’m within walking distance, which is great. Ryle moved back into the apartment he bought, but between visiting Allysa’s place and Ryle’s days with Emerson, I feel like I’m still at their apartment building almost as much as I’m at mine.

“Almost there, Emmy.” We make a right around the corner and I’m in such a rush, a man has to step out of our way and into the wall just to avoid being plowed over. “Sorry,” I mutter, ducking my head and making my way around him.

“Lily?”

I stop.

I turn slowly, because I felt that voice all the way to my toes. There are only two voices that have ever done that to me, and Ryle’s doesn’t reach that far anymore.

When I look back at him, his blue eyes are squinting against the sun. He lifts a hand to shield it and he grins. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I say, my frenzied brain trying to slow down and allow me to play catch-up.

He glances at the stroller and points at it. “Is that . . . is this your baby?”

I nod and he walks around to the front of the stroller. He kneels down and smiles widely at her. “Wow. She’s gorgeous, Lily,” he says. “What’s her name?”

“Emerson. We call her Emmy sometimes.”

He puts his finger in her hand and she starts kicking, shaking his finger back and forth. He stares at her appreciatively for a moment and then stands back up again.

“You look great,” he says.

I try not to give him an obvious once-over, but it’s hard. He looks as good as ever, but this is the first time seeing him that I’m not trying to deny how gorgeous he turned out to be. A far cry from that homeless boy in my bedroom. Yet . . . somehow still exactly the same.