Page 121 of All We Have Left

“I like your husband.” She nods in Sid’s direction, who is gingerly setting her youngest down so that she can pull at a dandelion she spotted. “He’s a nice man.”

“I like him, too.”

He perks up, as if he just caught us talking about him, looking slightly embarrassed. I give Beth-Anne a parting squeeze, then skip toward him. He pulls me into a hug anda handful of papers press against my back—probably the sanctuary documents for Beth-Anne’s family. This time, the whole process went through the right government offices, instead of happening hastily in a hospital waiting room.

“She says you’re great,” I say. “Which I have to agree with. You look pretty okay holding a baby.”

“Trying to get practice in while I can,” he says.

“Just so you know, though—you’re not allowed to marry her. Not even if she asks nicely. That’s the rule.”

“As I explained to Tom, that isnotgoing to be our policy with sanctuary seekers going forward.”

“He’s still on your ass?”

“Worse than ever. It’s the closest he gets to the concept of friendship.”

I laugh, before realizing two things—one, I might pee a little if I’m not careful. And two, Beth-Anne is waiting for me. I can catch up with Sid later tonight.

And catch up we do. After we’ve eaten together with our new family. After we’ve sat around the fire, James playing his guitar. After I’ve guided Beth-Anne back to her apartment, because the music brought her to tears and she needs a moment alone. After the kids are in bed and April is cursing at a worksheet on the quadratic formula and Carlos has dampened the fire in the stove.

After all of that, I curl up next to Sid and we swap stories. Mine involve purchasing children’s beds at the exchange. His describe the commotion at City Hall when the boat from Astolia arrived. Four families came all at once. We haven’t had a refugee situation like that since the early days after the Quake and the government is a-twitter about it.

Once the words are caught up and there’s nothing left to say, we simply exist together. He kisses me, gentle as hishand slides over my swollen belly, flutters of small limbs dancing against a father’s hand.

It’s not quite what I would call a storybook ending. But it is happiness. And it is ever after.

And it means the whole world.

THE END