Something swelled in my chest, pride, joy, a fierce rush of love that felt almost too big for my body to contain. Emma. My goddaughter. The little girl I’d read Charlotte’s Web to during her first round of chemo, curled up in a hospital bed that seemed to swallow her whole, fighting a battle no eight-year-old should have to fight.
She’d won. She’d won everything.
“Emma.” My voice came out thick. “Oh my God. Harvard?”
“Harvard!” She was bouncing now, the camera shaking with her excitement. “I haven’t even told Mom yet because I wanted to tell you first because you’re going to freak out appropriately instead of immediately planning a Harvard-themed party?—”
“Your mother is definitely planning a Harvard-themed party.”
“Crimson tablecloths. I’ve already made my peace with it.” Her face softened into something more serious.
“Aunt Mags? You know why I want to do this, right? The whole doctor thing?”
“Because you’re brilliant and you want to help people.”
“Because of you.” She said it simply, like it was obvious. “When I was sick. You were there every single time. Every chemo session, every bad day, every night I couldn’t sleep. You read me that book about the pig and the spider, and you cried harder than I did when Charlotte died, and you told me I was going to be okay. And I believed you.”
I pressed my hand against my mouth. The hallway blurred.
“I want to be that for other kids,” Emma continued. “The person who sits with them when it’s scary. The person who makes them believe they’re going to be okay.”
She shrugged, trying to make it casual, failing completely. “Pediatric oncology. That’s the plan. Well, the plan is to survive organic chemistry first. Then pediatric oncology.”
“One impossible thing at a time.”
“Exactly.” Behind her, someone called her name, one of the endless stream of friends Emma seemed to collect without trying. “I have to go. Pizza and horror movies with the other single people. Very anti-Valentine’s.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Right? Way better than hearts and flowers.” She blew a kiss at the screen. “Love you, Aunt Mags. Go drink better champagne than whatever’s at that party.”
“Love you too, sweetheart. And Emma?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so proud of you. I’m so—” My voice caught. “Your mom and dad will be over the moon.”
“Dad will start researching the best coffee shops near Harvard Yard. And Mom will cry. Standard Owens family response to good news.”
One more grin, bright as the sunrise. “Call tomorrow? Someone needs to talk her down from the decorations.”
“I’ll call. I promise.”
The screen went dark. I stood in the hallway for a long moment, phone pressed against my chest, feeling everything at once.
Emma was going to be extraordinary. The sick little girl who’d clutched my hand through blood draws and terror was going to grow up to help other children the same way. She was going to save lives.
And I got to watch it happen. Got to be Aunt Mags, the cool godmother who took her to Fenway games and let her order dessert first and had a spare bedroom in the South End that was basically hers whenever she wanted it.
I’d chosen not to have children of my own. Made that choice deliberately, years ago, when I realized that what I wanted most was exactly what I had. My career, my independence, my carefully curated life. Some women were meant to be mothers. I was meant to be Aunt Mags—showing up when it mattered, loving fiercely without the daily logistics, building a life that was entirely my own.
I didn’t regret it. Not even on Valentine’s Day.
The walk home took twenty minutes, cutting through the Common where couples wandered despite the cold, their breath making clouds in the frigid air. I passed a restaurant where Kirk and I used to eat sometimes, back when Kirk was my husband instead of my pleasant memory, back when we were two people who’d married because we never argued and didn’t realize that was because neither of us cared enough to fight.
We’d been divorced twelve years now. He’d remarried a woman named Susan who adored him, had four kids in quick succession, moved to a house in Newton with a big backyard and a golden retriever. We exchanged Christmas cards. Got lunch twice a year when he was in the city. He was happy. I was happy for him. Some things that don’t work aren’t anyone’s fault—they’re just not the right fit, like a key that almost turns the lock but not quite.
Kirk had been safe. That was why I’d married him. After Jack?—
