Page 33 of Make You Mine

Amerie

Three years later…

Three years later, I still carry pieces of that spring with me, but they don’t own me anymore.

For a long time, I let the guilt fester.

I replayed everything that happened in Rosethorne until the memories kept me up at night.

They were bruises that refused to fade. I blamed myself, asking why I hadn’t seen the signs sooner, wondering how I could’ve trusted her in the first place, or thinking that maybe if I hadn’t been so tired and distracted maybe I wouldn’t have ever hired her.

But time has a way of putting things into perspective. The more it passes, the greater the distance between the bad thing that happened and the person you grow to be in the present. I came to realize that I didn’t need to blame myself anymore.

That there was nothing I could do to stop what happened.

Chelsea— Claire Hughes —had made up her mind that she was obsessed with me and my family, and one way or another, she was going to act on it.

She made that decision years before I ever met her that afternoon, interviewing her for the nanny position. She simply needed the in to do so.

I gave her one without ever meaning to.

I used to think strength meant pretending nothing hurt. That if I just smiled through it, powered through things like my diabetes struggles, kept the mask in place, then I was doing okay.

Now I know better. Real strength is messier than that.

It’s falling apart and still choosing to show up.

It’s holding your baby with one arm in a hospital bed and promising you’ll never leave them again, even when your body is trembling and your voice is raw.

It’s trusting that the people you love can see the worst of you and still love you anyway.

I don’t need to be perfect. I don’t even want to be anymore. I’ve learned to embrace all of it—the flaws, the imperfections, the losses. I am all of those things and more, and I’ve never been prouder to be.

After everything that happened, Declan and I both knew staying in Rosethorne wasn’t an option. The village had become too small and we’d already outgrown it. We needed something new. Somewhere we could really call home and make fresh memories.

So we packed up our life and moved back to the States.

Virginia felt like the right kind of beginning. I had family here—on my father’s side, distant but we reconnected—and there was something about the stillness of the Blue Ridge Mountains that made us both exhale for the first time in what felt like years.

The house we chose sits beyond a sleepy stretch of road, the kind where deer wander across at dusk and fireflies buzz like sparks in the tall grass in the summer.

It’s surrounded by trees that glow gold in the fall, and a porch that wraps around the perimeter.

We walked through the front door and knew at once.

This was it. This was home.

Declan finally left the soul-sucking corporate grind behind too, quitting his Managing Director job at Halberd. No more late trains or power-hungry men demanding he sacrifice his personal and family life.

Instead, he went into business for himself, utilizing some of his savvy skillset.

He launched a boutique advisory firm here in Virginia, helping small businesses stay afloat and turn a profit without selling their souls.

It’s still finance… but with heart. He sets his own hours, picks his own clients, earns more than enough to keep us comfortable, and hasn’t once missed a family dinner.

My career’s taken a few turns too. Some of them planned. Most of them not. After everything that happened with Chelsea, I took a break from writing, initially because I was recovering, but mostly because the words wouldn’t come.

For months, I’d sit in front of a blank screen, fingers hovering over the keys, and all I could do was stare. But eventually, I got that itch again, and I found myself tapping away, the words pouring out.

It wasn’t about escaping into some fictional world. More so about reclaiming an experience I had.

So I did what felt right. I wrote a book loosely inspired by the nightmare we lived through about the nanny from hell. It was a safe space to explore the trauma and strangely cathartic to experience the situation through the lens of fictional characters.

Turns out, the story struck a chord. It became a national bestseller—my best-selling book to date. My publisher’s been begging me ever since to turn it into a series, and the readers won’t drop it either. Every other message is: When’s the next one? Is it a trilogy? Will there be more?

But I’m in no rush. I’ve learned my lesson about pushing myself past my limits. These days, I write when the words come, not when I feel pressured because too much time has gone by and my career is slipping through my fingers.

I’m just as happy focusing on Declan and the kids.

We’ve even had another baby.

…because apparently peace and privacy make for excellent birth-control failures. Desmond was born only a year after we settled in, another caramel-dipped mini me of Declan. He’s two now, going through that phase where he’s banging pots together and thinks he can say no to everything.

But he’s got two older siblings who look out for him.

Emmett’s entering preschool this fall, which blows my mind. It feels like it was just yesterday he was taking four naps a day and sucking down my breastmilk like he couldn’t get enough. He’s fascinated by his dad, swearing up and down he’s going to be a businessman like Declan when he’s older.

We’re not sure he grasps what it even involves, but he thinks the satchel and laptop Declan carries around are cool, so that’s enough for him.

Meanwhile, Willow’s taken her responsibility as the oldest very seriously. Though she’s only eight— almost nine, which she regularly reminds us—she insists she’s mature enough to babysit Emmett and Desmond.

Declan usually laughs and strokes her curls. “Maybe in a few years. You’re still a widget, Widget.”

“Daddy!” she groans, stomping her foot. “I’m a big girl now!”

We usually exchange amused looks as she goes on to tell us about how she no longer uses a night light or believes Santa is real (so she says, though she still leaves out a plate of cookies each Christmas Eve).

But she does still enjoy running and playing like a kid. It’s part of what makes our summer nights as a family.

The sun dips behind the Blue Ridge Mountains, painting the sky in smudges of coral and lavender as the thick summer air hums with cicadas. I sit curled in the old wicker chair on our back porch, a smirk on my face.

Out on the lawn, Willow and Emmett dart through the soft blades barefoot, chasing fireflies with a glass jar that glints gold in the dusk.

Their laughter rises into the evening like wind chimes.

Desmond tries to keep up, but he can only teeter after them, occasionally plopping his diapered bottom in the grass.

He claps and squeals every time one of his older siblings makes a grab for a flickering light.

He doesn’t really understand the game, but the two-year-old’s thrilled to be included just the same.

The screen door creaks behind me and slaps shut, followed by the familiar thud of Declan’s boots on the porch boards. He sets a sweating glass of sweet tea on the table beside me with that crooked smile I’ve never gotten tired of, even after all this time.

“Fireflies,” he says with a tilt of his head toward the kids. “Or some sort of low-stakes Darwinian contest. Not sure which.”

I snort, half choking on my sip of tea. “Let them burn off all their energy. They’ll crash hard after this.”

He sinks into the lounger beside me with a satisfied grunt, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily. “That’s the spirit. Wear ’em out early so we can have our own fun. Mummy and Daddy Time.”

He waggles his brows at me not-so-subtly and then reaches out a hand to squeeze my thigh. My cheeks flush even as I laugh, swatting at his hand.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And yet, somehow still married.”

“Mmhmm.”

He leans back, hands behind his head, watching the kids run in dizzying little circles through the last amber stretch of sunlight. After a beat, his tone turns thoughtful. “You know what tonight is, don’t you?”

I draw in a slow breath that exhales even slower.

The tea is cool and sweet on my tongue, and the sky is shifting now into a deeper shade of blue.

Willow is shrieking as Emmett fumbles a firefly and it flits right past his nose.

Desmond claps again, delighted and clueless, and I revel in how things couldn’t be any better than this.

“I do,” I murmur. “Ten years tonight.”

“That’s right,” Declan says. An almost boyish smile tugs at his lips. “Can you believe it? You’ve wasted a whole bloody decade on me, love.”

I slide my hand into his, fingers lacing tightly. “I’m not sure waste is the word I’d use. More like… the best ten of my life.”

His thumb strokes over my knuckles. When I look over at him, I find that warm adoration he only ever uses for me, like I’m his whole world wrapped in skin.

“Thanks for giving me your real number,” he teases, earning a laugh out of me.

We fall into a comfortable silence, letting the sound of our kid’s laughter fill the space between us as Willow finally manages to trap a firefly in the glass jar.

A chorus of cheers erupts as she lifts it triumphantly like she’s just caught a star.

Emmett jumps alongside her, clapping with all the force his little hands can muster.

Even Desmond squeals with delight from his spot in the grass.

Seconds later, all three come dashing toward the porch, their bare feet pounding against the earth, their faces lit with excitement and the golden afterglow of sunset.

And we’re right here—exactly where we need to be—waiting for them.

THE END