Be strong, be very strong, and we will strengthen each other.

The prospect that we finally could live that out, that we could finally be partners for the rest of our lives and fulfill the promises we made in the shade of that tree, brings me to tears.

“Don’t cry.” Ezra brushes at my cheeks but can’t stem the flow. “Tru, I—”

“Yes,” I manage to whisper, barely able to see him through a scrim of tears. “I will marry you again.”

He had to know I’d say yes, that I could never refuse him, but he looks shaken, a long sigh of relief rushing from his chest. He slowly pulls the tab from its velvet bed. It’s bigger than a soda tab, but still barely fits when I extend a trembling hand, and he slips it as far as it will go onto my ring finger.

“Guess we’ll have to get a replacement, fast.” He chuckles.

There has never been a race, an election, a campaign, a win that has made me feel this way. It’s the kind of contentment only found when you stand still. When you stop running long enough to run into yourself—to collide with your future and release the past. The path to this moment is paved with a million “ifs.” If our parents had never argued, never fallen out. If the Sterns had never moved. If Ezra and I had found each other sooner. But every possibility changes this moment—shifts the path that has made us who we are at this very second. And I can’t help but think when we were born on the same day, when we were made together, our path was set, even with its delays, detours and disillusions. We are made of choices and losses and triumphs and, yes, some happenstance. Ezra and I were made for this moment, made for each other exactly as we are now.

And looking into his eyes, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Epilogue

Epilogue

Ezra

One Year Later

“Study your queen so you can give her what she wants without asking.”

Nipsey Hussle,

Musician, Activist, Entrepreneur

Christmas at the Sterns’ is an unusual affair.

A cohesion of traditions and religions and families. There’s a Christmas tree that almost reaches the ceiling and stockings hanging over the fireplace. A menorah resides in the window and a mezuzah scroll guards nearly every door, courtesy of my mother. For dinner, we ate turkey and stuffing and macaroni and cheese and collard greens. Mrs. Allen’s fried chicken made peace with Mom’s fish and challah bread. Potato latkes, steamed rice and dumplings rounded out the meal, a hodgepodge of dishes to satisfy any palette. Chopsticks nestled between the forks and spoons.