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His eyes roll so hard I’m surprised they don’t stick.

Two years ago, Cillian walked into our home carrying everything he owned in a single duffel bag. He was twelve. Old enough to know that foster placements end. Old enough not to unpack all his clothes. Old enough to sleep with his shoes beside the bed in case he had to leave again. Memories of my own came flooding back to me that night. Conor held me as I cried myself to sleep. I cried for myself, but mostly for the boy sleeping in our guest room.

We took things slowly. There were no promises we couldn’t keep. No demands that he call us “Dad” and “Papa”. No expectation that trust would appear overnight.

Instead, we showed up. Every day. Every meal. Every school event. Every nightmare. Every victory.

The first time he left a toothbrush in the bathroom instead of putting it back in his bag, Conor noticed. He didn’t say a word. Just smiled to himself for the rest of the day.

The duffel bag stayed packed for almost three months, then one morning it disappeared. Neither of us asked where it went. It had finally stopped being an exit strategy. It had become an empty bag in the back of a closet. Exactly where it belonged. When the adoption came up, he asked to change his name to sound more “Murphy-ish”, his words.

Now Cillian stands in my kitchen arguing about diapers with all the confidence of a kid who knows he’s not going anywhere. And I can’t think of a more beautiful ending than that.

Epilogue Part 2

Conor

“No.” I don’t even bother looking up from the paperwork spread across my desk. I’ve already answered this question twice. The answer hasn’t changed with repetition.

“Aww, come on, Pops.”

Cillian leans against the doorframe, deploying what he believes are his best puppy-dog eyes.

“Please?”

I finally look at him. Then point directly at his face.

“You know that”—I wag my finger—“only works on your dad.”

His grin widens. Exactly the reaction I was trying to avoid.

“Then maybe,” he says in a sing-song voice, “I should go ask him.”

I sigh. He takes that as encouragement.

“If I get Dad on my side, you can’t say no.”

I stare at him. Fucking kid logic. The crazy part is he’s absolutely right. Jaxon has an uncanny ability to make me reconsider decisions I’d already made. Usually without saying much at all. One look. One hand on my arm. A quiet, “Are you sure?”, and suddenly the hill I was prepared to die on isn’t nearly as important.

Cillian knows it too. The little traitor. He inherited Murphy’s stubbornness despite not sharing a drop of Murphy blood. Then again, blood has never had much to do with family in this house. He pushes off the doorframe.

“So… should I go get Dad?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No.”

“Is that your final answer?”

“Yes.”

“Really final?”

“Yes.”

“What if—”

“No.”

“I didn’t even ask the question.”