Page 140 of Every Shattered Note
She opens her eyes,and there’s something in them that feels like forever.
“Is that new?”she asks.
I nod.
“You gonna release it?”
“I will.Eventually.”I grin.“But for now, it’s ours.”
She shifts, climbing into my lap like it’s her natural state of being.Her hand finds my jaw, thumb tracing the corner of my mouth.“You know, you never did build that studio.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Building us.”
She kisses me then—slow, easy, the kind of kiss that feels like memory and beginning at once.When she pulls back, her eyes are shining, the way they do when she’s trying not to cry.
“Tomorrow night,” she whispers.
I smile, brushing my nose against hers.“Always.”
She laughs quietly, the sound threading into the soft crash of the tide below.The ferry horn moans again, long and low, like the world exhaling.
I used to think happiness was something loud—a crowd, a chart position, a headline.
Turns out it’s this.
Her heartbeat against mine.
The creak of the deck.
The warmth of her hand anchored in mine.
I take another breath and let the quiet settle.
Finally, I’m not running from the silence.
I’m living in it.
And it’s music.
Epilogue 2
Mara
March 12, 2001
That strange little tug in your stomach—the one that whispers something’s about to shift?Yeah.That.It slips in before I even read the subject line.
The email comes in while I’m sitting in a hotel room in Lisbon—somewhere between Mila wrapping up her math assignment and me pretending cold coffee is a lifestyle choice.The yellow morning light spills through the thin hotel curtains, painting the room in a warm haze.Outside, an old tram grinds up the hill, its rumble threading through the quiet between Mila’s pencil scratches and my slow-motion spiral, grounding me in a morning that refuses to cooperate with my denial.
My inbox is full of ignored messages: clients, my agent, editors, and friends who worry I’ve vanished into a creative black hole.
Which, to be fair, happens.Sometimes by accident.Sometimes by pure, intentional avoidance—my own disappearing act worthy of a magician with questionable decision-making skills.I blame life.I blame parenting.I blame whoever invented the concept of juggling careers, motherhood, and the illusion of balance as if it were real.
I mean, I have things to do.Pictures to take.Bills to pay.A daughter to raise.Homeschooling, which sounded so whimsical and bohemian in my head, is actually exhausting.There’s curriculum, and science experiments, and math that looks nothing like the math I grew up with.Honestly, trying to teach Mila while dragging her around the world feels like signing up for an Olympic sport I never trained for.A bitch of a sport, if I’m being truly honest with myself.
