Page 51

MILLIE

July 26th

I'm not great at this. You know that. I'm better at showing up than writing things down, better at touches than speeches, but something about this morning feels like it needs a letter. Something just for you.

I probably won't even give it to you. I'll fold it up, tuck it into the back of one of your old photo albums, the ones you've filled with messy snapshots and sticky notes and small moments only we would understand. Maybe you'll find it one day. Maybe not. But I had to write it anyway.

It's still early. The sun hasn't fully climbed over the ocean yet, but the sky's got that soft pink-blue tint I know you'd love to capture—if you weren't busy snoring into my shoulder.

We're getting married in the middle of a Florida summer—because of course we are.

The heat is already clinging to everything, the kind that makes your shoulders shine and your cheeks glow.

The kind you hate unless we're on the beach at golden hour.

But today, you won't care. Because your eyes will be locked on mine, and nothing else will matter. I know it. I can already feel it.

And I know your mom will be there.

I know it in the breeze that rolls in from the gulf, in the way the sunlight catches the corner of the sheets, in the way you sighed in your sleep like you were saying yes to something in a dream.

I see her every time you talk about the stars.

Every time you touch your camera like it's holy.

Every time you smile like the world is just a little bit softer than it used to be.

She's in your hands. She's in your heart. She's here.

I promise you, baby—she wouldn't miss this day. Not for anything.

You're curled into me like you always are in the mornings, like your body knows mine even before your mind wakes up. One hand splayed over my ribs, your legs tangled up with mine under the sheet, your hair tickling my collarbone in a way I should probably find annoying, but don't.

We weren't supposed to do this. Everyone says it's bad luck to see each other before the ceremony.

But if this is what bad luck looks like—your sleepy breath on my skin, your fingers twitching with dreams you'll probably tell me about in five hours while you wear a white dress and try not to cry—then I'll take it.

If this is bad luck, I'll die right here, Harper, holding you like this.

You already know all of this, but I need to say it anyway. I need you to have it in words, on paper, in ink. Because you deserve that. You deserve everything.

You walked into my life with nothing but a broken heart and a hundred boxes of mismatched clothes and no idea where to put your pain. You didn't even have a bed—just a soft smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, and a camera bag you clutched like a lifeline.

You were two doors down, and then one door down, and then you were just... there. In my kitchen. In my room. In my space. In my life. Our first apartment, before you—it was grey. I didn't even notice until you brought color into it. Into me.

You made my world warmer just by stepping into it. I didn't know it could be like this—easy and hard, quiet and loud, chaotic and still. You let me love you when you weren't sure love was even real. You let me see the softest parts of you when all you'd ever known was leaving.

You taught me how to be patient. How to listen. How to hold someone without trying to fix them. You gave me everything without asking for anything in return.

I've watched you grieve. I've watched you rebuild.

I've held your hand through anniversaries you didn't speak out loud.

I've laid beside you while you whispered memories of your mom into my chest. I've seen the ache in your eyes on quiet mornings when the coffee tastes a little too bitter, and still—you smile.

You fight for joy. You make space for love even when it hurts.

You didn't need saving, Harps. You never did. But God, I'm lucky I got to be the one who stood beside you while you saved yourself.

I love the way you take pictures of things most people miss—the quiet in-between, the messes, the beauty in imperfection.

I love that you drink your coffee too sweet and complain when I call it dessert.

I love that you steal my hoodies and lie about it with a smile that makes my knees weak.

I love that you still blush when I call you mine.

And I'll keep calling you mine for the rest of my life.

In a few hours, we'll get dressed. You'll wear something that'll probably knock the breath out of my lungs.

I'll forget my vows. Lia will toss flower petals like it's a full-contact sport.

Summer will cry. Aurora will pretend not to.

The twins will laugh too loud. And my moms will hold hands and smile like they always do—like love was always meant to look like this.

We'll say forever out loud. But we already meant it years ago.

You are the soft place I land. The steady hum beneath every noise in my life. The ache in my chest and the peace in my bones. You are the proof that even when things break, they can still be made beautiful again.

I don't know how to end this letter, because I don't want to end this feeling. This morning. This life.

But maybe it doesn't end. Maybe this is just another beginning.

Thank you for choosing me, even when it was hard.

Thank you for letting me love you, every version of you.

Thank you for being the home I didn't know I was building all this time.

See you at the altar, beautiful girl.

I'll be the one crying first.

Love always,

Your wife, Millie.

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If you ever find this—if Harper ever shares it with you, or it ends up in a drawer someone opens twenty years from now—then let me say this, while the morning is still quiet and golden, while Harper's breath is still brushing against my skin, while the ocean feels like it belongs to us and everything good is still right here, within reach:

Thank you.

Thank you for making me who I am.

Thank you for raising me in a home that was full of laughter and love and chaos and color.

A home that didn't always look perfect from the outside—but felt like the safest place in the world once you stepped inside.

A home where being loud wasn't a flaw, where softness wasn't a weakness, where family didn't mean perfect—it meant present.

It meant real. It meant staying. Even when things got messy. Especially when things got hard.

Mommy. Mom. You both built this family from scratch. From nothing but love and grit and the kind of strength you don't get credit for—but should. You built us.

Mama, maybe the world saw you as the unstoppable Luna Bennett—the hockey legend with the medals and the records and the fire in her eyes.

Maybe they only knew the player. But I got the mom.

The one who showed up at every school play with a bouquet that was too big.

The one who taught me how to skate, not because I had to—but because she saw that I wanted to.

The one who held me when I lost my first game and told me my worth was never tied to the scoreboard.

The one who held me tighter when I lost other things, bigger things, harder things.

And somehow made space for every piece of me—even the ones I didn't know how to name yet.

You were famous, yeah. You were unstoppable. But the most incredible thing you ever did wasn't on the ice. It was us. This family. This messy, wonderful, big-hearted tribe you helped build. You were born into hockey—but you made home your legacy.

And Mom...

God, Mom, I don't even have the right words.

You had every reason to shut the world out, and instead you opened your arms and made room for all of us.

You were already a mom when you met Mama.

Already fighting battles most people wouldn't have survived.

And somehow, even with all that weight on your shoulders—you showed up for us with so much patience, so much grace.

You gave me your calm when I didn't know how to quiet my own mind.

You gave me your fire when I needed to stand up for myself.

You gave me your hands on my shoulders the day I came out and thought maybe, just maybe, I wasn't enough.

And you said, You're perfect. And you meant it.

You loved us with this steady, unshakable kind of love that I'm only beginning to understand now.

You reminded me that softness is strength.

That healing is a form of power. That family—real family—is chosen again and again, not just in the easy moments, but in the broken ones. Especially in the broken ones.

You didn't have to be perfect. You weren't. None of us are. But you showed up. You stayed. You taught me how to listen. How to be kind. How to forgive. You made me feel safe in my own skin. And you taught me what it meant to be loved fully. Not for what I did—but for who I am.

Because of you both, I grew up in a home where two women raised three strong daughters.

Where queerness wasn't a phase or a problem—it was a celebration.

Where dinner was loud and late and often interrupted by someone dancing in the kitchen.

Where sometimes we had to share a bathroom because there were a lot of us.

We had to say I love you like it was breathing.

Where we didn't know pain or cameras until we were old enough to understand the real world, and even then, you made it easy.

I know what the world thinks when they see the name Bennett.

I know the headlines and the photos and the expectations.

But what the world doesn't see is what I carry with me every day: the warmth of your voices, the lessons in your quiet glances, the way you held me through every version of myself.

You gave me this life that was both extraordinary and achingly normal.

You made me feel like it was okay to want something soft, something stable, something real.

And I got it. I got all of it. Because of you.

So thank you.

For the hockey games and the homemade birthday cakes and the terrible matching pajamas.

For the movie nights, we still have even today.

For the hard conversations and the second chances.

For teaching me how to be a sister, how to be a partner, how to be me.

For loving Harper the way you do. For loving me the way you always have.

I'll spend my whole life trying to live up to the love you gave us. I promise.

Aurora. Summer.

My first best friends.

My forever.

I don't even know where to start with the two of you—how to gather a lifetime into a page.

How to say thank you in a way that even touches what you've given me.

You've always been here. Before anyone else.

Before I even knew how to walk or talk or throw a tantrum (which, let's be honest, I mastered pretty early).

You were the hands that steadied me. The arms that carried me when I was tired.

The voices that filled the quiet of my childhood with laughter and music and late-night whispers under a too-small blanket during sleepovers in the living room.

Ro, you were twelve when I was born, and somehow you never made me feel like a burden.

You were already you—calm, composed, quietly wise beyond your years.

You changed diapers and heated bottles and helped with homework that wasn't even yours.

You'd braid my hair when I begged, even though I squirmed the whole time.

You always smelled like whatever perfume Mama let you steal and some kind of strawberry shampoo.

I thought you were the most beautiful person in the world.

I still kind of do. You've always walked two steps ahead, clearing the path, making space—for me, for Summer, for everyone.

I watched you fall in love, become a mom, build a life that's so full of grace and softness and fierce, quiet love.

You carry so much. You give so much. And you've never once made me feel like I had to earn my place beside you.

And Summer, you were nine when I showed up and turned your whole world upside down.

You were jealous at first. Mom used to tell me you pouted for a week.

But I don't remember that. I just remember you carrying me on your back, making up songs about my stinky diapers, sneaking me bits of chocolate when no one was looking.

Reading romance novels with me and listening to Taylor Swift when I didn't want to.

I remember dancing with you— wanting to be perfect like you were.

I wanted to be strong like you. You were the calm one, but also so fearless.

You were the storm I wanted to chase. You taught me to be kind.

You taught me to say what I felt—even when it scared me.

You'd yell at anyone who hurt my feelings, even if it was one of our cousins or, let's be honest, a teacher.

You never let me be left out. Not once. Even when your friends came over and I was the annoying baby sister who wanted to tag along—you let me. You let me belong.

I used to sit at the top of the stairs and listen to the two of you talk in the kitchen after I was supposed to be in bed. I don't even remember what you were saying half the time—I just remember the sound of your voices. Safe. Familiar. Home. That's what you've always been to me. My home.

You both showed me what love looks like before I even had a name for it.

Not the romantic kind—but the real kind.

The messy, unconditional, lifelong kind.

The kind that makes you show up at 2 a.m. with snacks and a baseball bat if someone breaks your heart.

The kind that forgives, and stays, and holds.

You taught me how to laugh at myself. How to fight fair.

How to say sorry. You were the blueprint for every love that came after.

When Harper walked into my life, I didn't recognize what I was feeling at first. It scared me.

It was big and quiet and sudden, all at once.

But you both helped me understand it. You helped me see that this kind of love—the deep, steady, impossible-to-define kind—was something I could have.

Something I deserved. Because I saw you both live it.

Ro, in the way you look at Camille like she's still the girl who turned your world upside down.

Summer, in the way you call Willow out when she's being annoying, but then kiss her like the whole world could end and it wouldn't matter.

You made love real for me. You made it safe.

And now, here I am, on the morning of my wedding, writing this letter while Harper's asleep next to me, snoring a little (don't tell her I said that). Her hand is curled over my ribs like she always sleeps that way, like she belongs there. And the thing is, she does.

I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you two.

You made me brave. You made me kind. You made me me.

So thank you.

For every hockey game you've played with me, every Marvel fight you let me win, every game you let me tag along to, every sweatshirt you pretended not to notice I stole. For the sisterhood that shaped me. For being the first people to love me—fully, fiercely, forever.

I'm walking down the aisle today with a full heart and a steady soul, and it's because you helped raise me into someone who believes in this. In love. In forever. In family.

I love you both more than words will ever hold.

So— Moms, Rory, Sunny, Harper, if this letter ever finds you—tucked in a box beneath old photo albums or passed around years from now when our kids ask what that day was like—I hope you read it and feel how much I love you. How much I always have.

Because everything good in me started with this family.

With our messy dinners and overlapping voices. With our hand-me-down stories and worn-in traditions. With the way we never let go of each other, even when the world asked us to.

This love—the Bennett kind of love—it's stitched into every part of me. It's the fire in my laugh, the steel in my spine, the softness in the way I hold Harper's hand when no one's watching. It's the reason I know how to stay. How to fight for what matters. How to love in a way that lasts.

So thank you, for the kind of life that doesn't just make memories—

It makes meaning.

It makes legacy.

It makes home.

Okay, my hand's starting to go numb and Harper's alarm will go off any minute now.

So I'm gonna go marry her. Bye!

Love you forever.

Always, the Bennetts

(yes, she's gonna take my last name!)

To the next chapter.

—–————–——————–———

I think there isn't much more to say other than: thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. A thousand times, and then a thousand more.

When I started writing the Bennetts, I never imagined how much this world would come to mean to me—or how much you would.

Your comments, your reactions, your love for these characters.

.. they've been the heartbeat of this story.

You've laughed with them, cried with them, fallen in love with them—and because of you, this world became something real.

I don't know if I'll ever hold a physical book with my name on the cover. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't.

But this is enough.

You made my dream come true.

I hope Mia and Luna stay with you—the way they built a family from scratch, the way they taught all of us that love can be quiet, fierce, and chosen.

I hope Aurora and Camille's love wraps around you when you need it.

I hope Summer and Willow make you laugh loud and love louder.

And I hope Millie and Harper remind you that healing is real, and love can feel like home, even when you feel lost.

If these characters have meant even a fraction to you of what they've meant to me, then I've done my job.

This chapter might be closed, but I'll see you again soon.

In another story, another universe. Somewhere new—but still full of heart.

Don't think I'll ever forget about you— them. I have many things to say, and write about. You'll be seeing them again. They'll always be my babies.

See you soon.