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EPILOGUE
Erin
Not longafter we got back together, Thomas and Itied the knot.
Two happy years had passed since we had the intimate ceremony in Thomas’sparents’ garden, surrounded by our families, Zach, and Laura. Neither of us were fans of big celebrations, and besides, we didn’twant anyone else with us on our special day.
Iwore asimple A-line wedding gown, decorated with lace that hung loose from my body and reached down to my ankles, and Corey and mom walked me down the makeshift aisle to meet my groom. Thomas never looked more handsome with his black suit and emotion-filled look in his eyes, while tears of joy filled mine.
It was beautiful. He was beautiful, and Iloved him.
Afterward we started therapy together and apart. We hadn’tstopped working on our issues, and having professionals assist us through them benefitted us as individuals and as acouple alike.
We painted next to each other, talking and inspiring and creating and doing not campus-approved behavior. Definitely not. But in all seriousness, we worked our butts off, preparing for the opening of our own gallery.
We celebrated it with ahuge party, showcasing both of our works. Deborah and Joseph were so proud, walking with their heads held high and telling everyone they were Thomas’sparents. Icaught sight of my husband’swide smile at that, his inner child celebrating, finally at rest.
Besides our families’ support, the gallery received rave reviews from art magazines, and many clients started flowing in to get their hands on our paintings and life-size sketches. We sold out fast and had ahard time keeping up with renewing our collections.
Every once in awhile, someone would come in and request Thomas to paint aportrait of him. He refused politely, regardless of the amount of money offered to him.
He loved painting, but he loved his students more and continued teaching and mentoring them. He devoted himself to advise them on how to make acareer out of painting, supported them through their journeys, as well as providing them with invaluable knowledge on the technical aspects of art. The waiting list for his classes was endless.
As for me, Igot my dream teaching job at amiddle school in Southie, one without aformal art program. They reviewed my grade sheet and references from my professors and were excited to let me develop these types of classes at their school. Iinvested hours to work on it and it paid off. The kids were delighted with learning different methods of painting, drawing, and sculpting. Iencouraged them constantly to experiment and believe in themselves.
Besides our hectic work life, we decided we wanted to start abig family. After awonderful first year as newlyweds, we were ready to create our own artwork, alittle baby Cooke.
We’dbeen trying for afew months when we received the amazing news that we were expecting not one, but two babies.
Amazing news for this momma to-be, at least. Thomas’shappiness was mixed with alarge portion of anxiety and he wanted to oversee every part of this pregnancy. He went with me to every doctor’sappointment, scheduling them aweek apart, keeping tabs on them at all times.
The close supervision didn’tend with our checkups, nope. Thomas returned from work early every day thanks to the new gallery manager we hired and for moving his classes to the morning hours. He begged me to stay home and rest and Iconceded, excluding my teaching job from our agreement. My students were, in away, my children.
My belly grew at afast rate with two tiny people occupying it. Thomas hugged my belly and talked to the twins daily, falling in love with them one kick at atime. Soon his anxiety morphed into love, then into hope.
The morning that marked the beginning of week thirty-five started like any other Saturday morning, except it wasn’t. It marked the morning our twins wanted to make their exit and meet their loving mom and dad.
We had breakfast in bed, me having my red velvet cupcakes and Thomas reading an article on his phone while his other hand rubbed my belly, when warm fluid ran down my legs and asharp pain emanated from my stomach.
My head turned swiftly in Thomas’sdirection, eyes wide. Ishook his hand forcefully. “Thomas, Ithink they’re coming!”
“What? Are you okay?” He threw his phone to the side and lifted the covers to check for signs of blood. When all he saw was apuddle of water, the terror in his eyes lessened. His actions, however, were no less frantic.
“I’mokay. Ithink my water broke.” Irubbed my stomach, focusing on breathing.
“Stay right here. I’mgoing to get the hospital bag.” He sprang to his feet and ran to the closet, mumbling to himself, “It’stoo soon, it’stoo soon.”
He returned with the bag, came to my side, and assisted me with draping my arm over his shoulder, and we wobbled down the stairs and into the car. He placed the towels on the car seat and helped me in, closed the door, and sped off to the hospital.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked while speeding through the lanes.
“Stop worrying, I’mnot in any—ow!—in any pain.”
Itried to regulate my breath with every contraction, but the pain made it almost impossible. The Lamaze class lady lied. Thomas massaged my leg the whole drive and Ithought Iheard him practicing the Lamaze breath techniques with me. My poor, sensitive husband.
We reached the hospital in record time and Dr. Hughes was waiting for us as we entered.
“How did you know we were coming?” Iworked around my discomfort and pain as Thomas brought awheelchair for me to sit in.
