“Thank God you’re not that sensible,” she said with a watery laugh.
“Shut up.” But I was smiling too.
When I kissed her, it was careful, mindful of the cut on her lip. She kissed me back, her hands fisting in my shirt to pull me closer.
“When did you get to Mapleridge?” I mumbled against her lips.
“Four. The flight was exhausting,” she replied.
“Damn, have you showered or even had anything to eat yet?”
“None of the above, having you in my arms again is more fulfilling than any of that. You mean everything to me,” she whispered against my lips. “Absolutely everything.”
“And you to me,” I whispered back. “God help me, you mean everything to me too.”
We held each other on my bedroom floor, both of us wounded in different ways but somehow still unbroken when we were together.
XXIV
“At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.”
— Warsan Shire
Epilogue
MARLEY
THREE YEARS LATER
The Vancouver Pride parade stretched down Robson Street like a river of colour and joy. I adjusted my black button-down and rolled up the sleeves, the June sun warming my tattooed forearms. My hair was shorter now, cropped close on the sides, but that didn’t stop my wife from running her fingers through it, muscle memory, if you asked me.
She stood beside me in a flowing yellow sundress, her natural hair swept up in an elegant bun that showed off the delicate gold hoops I’d given her for our second anniversary.
“Remember our first trip to Berlin together?” she asked, leaning into my shoulder as a group of drag queens sashayed past, throwing glitter that caught in the afternoon light.
How could I forget?
We’d visited my parents together after we graduated from our master’s programme. Kelechi had been nervous about meeting them, but lit up the moment my mother pulled her into a fierce hug. Those two weeks had been magical, long walks through Kreuzberg, lazy mornings in my childhood bedroom, my father teaching Kelechi German pronunciations that still gave her trouble whenever she attempted them.
“You cried when we walked through the Tränenpalast,” I reminded her, wrapping my arm around her waist, careful not to put pressure on her rounded belly.
“Sad tears,” she laughed. “Especially after learning the true history of that place.”
“Such a cry-baby,” I teased. “My cry-baby.”
She nudged me lightly.
Six months pregnant and glowing, she was radiant in ways that drew glances from strangers. The yellow dress emphasised how her body had changed and softened, though she remained oblivious to the effect she had on everyone around her.
Especially me.
“There they are!” Atlas’s voice carried over the crowd before I saw her and Carmen close behind, carrying their one-year-old daughter Zara on her hip. They’d married a year after Kelechi and I got back together, in a private ceremony that had all of us in happy tears.
“Ba, ba!” Zara squealed, reaching her chubby arms toward us. She was such a beautiful child, with Atlas’s eyes and mostly Carmen’s features.
My wife took her easily, settling the toddler against her hip while supporting her belly with her other hand. Watching her with children always made something warm bloom in my chest. We’d tried for almost a year before the IVF finally worked, and now here we were, so ready to meet our little one.
“How are you feeling today, mama?” Atlas asked as she rubbed Kelechi’s back.
