I kept it. I almost didn’t. I Almost let my pride make me walk away from it, from her, from everything we had touched, everything we had built.
But love—real love—doesn’t give you that option. Because it stays. And so did she.
That library Savannah once dreamed about? It’s real. It’s here.
And every morning, I wake up and find her sitting in that damn window nook, tucked into the cushions, legs curled beneath her, a book in one hand and coffee in the other.
It never gets old.
The way she loses herself in the words, the way her eyes soften when she finds a sentence that stays with her.
She loves all the books. The shelves are full of them. Classics, new releases, hardcovers, paperbacks—To surprise her, I even asked the bookstore clerk for recommendations.
Which, let me tell you, turned into an experience I wasn’t prepared for.
Apparently, there is a thing called "smut.” I had no idea what the hell that was when I asked.
Turns out, it’s word porn.
And judging by the way Savannah’s eyes lit up when she saw the stack, I have zero regrets. "I don’t mind that kind of love language at all," she’d whispered, her fingers tracing the spines.
I’d never seen her look at anything the way she looked at those books. Except maybe me.
The house is still the same, for the most part. I’ve made a few updates.
The bedrooms have been redone. The dock—the one where I spent too many nights wondering if I’d ever see her again—is still my favorite place to sit when Ineed to breathe.
The difference is—I’m not sitting out there waiting anymore. I’m not chasing ghosts. I’m living. Because she’s already here.
For all the good, and for all the bad, love changes us. It molds us into something new. It forces us to face the parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore. And if we let it—if we fight for it—it gives us something we never thought we’d have again.
Since that day all those years ago, I’ve become a better version of myself than I ever thought possible.
I don’t take things for granted anymore. I don’t let fear make my choices. And I damn sure won’t let the best thing that ever happened to me walk away twice.
I still sit here on this dock most nights, listening to the tide roll in.
The difference is, now? I’m not listening for echoes.
I’m listening for her. For the way she laughs when our son refuses to go to bed and wants to sit on "Daddy’s dock." I’m listening for the sound of her voice calling my name from the house, telling me that dinner’s ready, or that I forgot to fold the laundry, or that I need to come inside because Carter won’t go down without his daddy.
Yeah—our three-year-old can’t fall asleep unless I’m the one to tuck him in.
I never thought I’d love anything more than her.
But then she gave me him. And God, if that didn’t undo me completely.
Savannah still laughs about the way I cried the first time I held him. The way my hands shook when I traced his tiny fingers, the way I whispered, “I’ve got you, little man. You’re safe.”
The way I looked at her, completely wrecked, knowing I would never be the same.
I’m still not the same.
I’m better.
Because of her.
Because of him.
