Dr. Bart doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. The words hang there like a slammed door, until she finally turns and walks out of the apartment.
For good.
Epilogue
Brooke
The plan to have a picnic actually made it out of the group chat, miraclesdohappen.
We’re camped out in Central Park, each of us holding a baby, sipping orange juice out of champagne flutes like we’re sipping the most expensive mimosas in Manhattan. The sun’s warm but not punishing, a breeze rolls over the grass, and, so far, not a single baby meltdown. Which, if you’ve ever met an infant, is basically a small blessing from the universe.
I raise my glass, which is already half empty. “To community centres,” I say.
“Here, here,” everyone yells, clinking our glasses together.
Becks eyes me with a grin. “Someone’s glowing.”
I can’t help it, I smile. “I don’t know if it’s the honeymoon phase, but wow.” I fan myself dramatically.
They all laugh. Zara points at me with her free hand. “Careful or Penny’s going to get a little brother or sister soon.”
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, that’s not happening. She’ll have to make do with the babies in this group because they’re the closest thing she’s getting to siblings. Oh, and Stella’s kids.”
Becks snorts. “Shane wants another baby.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m still recovering from birthing this one and he’s already ordering another.”
Zara leans back on her elbows, grinning. “Do you want one?”
Becks softens. “Of course. Just… not yet. I’m still breastfeeding.”
“You’re a better woman than I am,” I say, shaking my head. “One birth was more than enough.”
We all laugh. I glance at Sheera, who’s been unusually quiet. “You’ve had three,” I say to her gently. “You’re the strongest of all of us.”
Sheera laughs, but there’s something a little distant in her eyes. “I think I just forgot the pain,” she says softly.
Before I can respond, a man on a bike drops it a few feet away and walks over. Messenger bag slung across his shoulder. He pulls out some papers, comes right up to our little circle.
“Sherlyn Kendal?” he asks.
Sheera looks up, wary. “Yes?”
He hands her a thick envelope. “You’ve been served.”
And just like that, he’s gone, sprinting back to his bike and pedalling off like some messenger from a bad soap opera.
We all stare at the envelope in Sheera’s lap. She opens it slowly, carefully, her fingers stiff. The second she reads the first page, she freezes, like all the colour drains from her face at once.
Zara leans forward. “Sheera? What is it?”
Sheera lifts her eyes to us, pale as a ghost. Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Byron’s divorcing me.”
Matthew
I grab our order just as Brooke walks up, stroller in hand, cheeks a little flushed from the walk. I hand her the cup and take the stroller handle from her.
She lets out a sigh of pure relief. “You’re a saint.”
