For All You Have Left

Epilogue

There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.

I still think about that quote from time to time. And I think maybe I was supposed to live two lives. Maybe I was supposed to meet two wonderful people and share my life with them. Maybe Shakespeare and Andrew had it right. Maybe the story of our life is what we make of it. I mean, we’re dealt the rain and the sun, but maybe it’s up to us to push away the clouds in order to see the rainbow.

My story began with Andrew Amsel. It began on the playground at Cedar Elementary and on our childhood adventures along with Hannah and James at my grandpa’s farm. It began in the hallways of Truman High and under the stars at Jenson’s slab. My life began in those little moments with that starry-eyed dreamer who stole my first I love you. And it still stings sometimes thinking about the story that Andrew and I could have had — the one we spent hours of our summer nights in the bed of his truck and under that old oak tree scheming and dreaming about. I’m convinced that that first heartbreak will never truly go away, and yet I don’t know what my story would have been like without Jorgen showing up across the hall in the next chapter either. I can’t even picture it. Andrew was my first love. Jorgen is my true love. I think I was meant to find them both — to give each one of them a part of my heart.

I still love Andrew very much. I gave him a piece of my heart a long time ago, and once you give that away, I’ve learned you don’t so easily get it back. Though, I’m not looking to get it back either. I’m concentrating on today now — on just those precious moments that are right in front of me.

“Mommy, I found a ring.”

I look down at my little girl. Her short pigtails are like sprouts shooting out of her little head.

“You did?” I ask her. “Let me see it.”

She proudly presents me with her tiny hand. I glance at the ring now wrapped around two of her fingers, and my smile fades.

“Whose ring is it, Mommy?”

I take a second before I answer her.

“It’s mommy’s ring, sweetheart.”

She stares at the ring for a moment.

“Where did you get it?”

Her small voice is so curious. I try to force a smile.

“A boy,” I answer her.

She’s dangling the ring now from her pinky finger.

“From Daddy?” she asks.

I look at her little, perfect face that seems to be completely engulfed in the ring and in the mystery behind it, and then I pull her closer to me and take the ring into my own hand.

“No, sweetheart, it was from Mommy’s first love.”

I kiss the top of her head.

“Someday, you’ll have a first love too,” I say.

She’s quiet for a moment. I know she’s thinking.

“Why isn’t Daddy your first love?” she asks then.

The hint of a smile starts to edge up my face.

“Because Daddy is my true love, darling,” I say to her.

She fixes her eyes on the ring in my hand again. I can tell she’s soaking up my words, but I’m not sure if she knows what they all mean.

“What if I just want one?” she eventually asks.

I push out a soft laugh.

“I pray that your first love is your true love, sweetheart.”

She turns to me and presses her delicate hand against my chest.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Does your heart hurt?”

My smile falters a little. I have no idea how this little person can sense so much feeling.

“No, sweetheart,” I say, shaking my head. “Mommy’s really happy. She’s really happy she had the chance to hold everyone she held in this life — especially you.”

I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her little body tightly against mine. And I hold her for a little longer than I usually do before I take a deep breath and let out a gentle sigh.

“Okay, sweetie, time for bed.”

I let her go, and she climbs into her bed as I stand up and pull the covers over her.

“Okay, what burrito am I making tonight?” I ask her.

I watch her eyes shift to the ceiling as she pushes her lips to one side and places a single finger on her chin.

“Cheese,” she eventually screams.

“Just cheese?”

“Just cheese,” she confirms, with another shout. “Cheese,” she cheers again.

“Okay, okay, a cheese burrito it is.”

I bend down and tuck the blanket in all around her. I’m not sure how this bedtime ritual started exactly, but she loves it.

“Making my cheese burrito,” I sing. “Gotta make it really tight.”

I tighten the blanket around her a little more, and then I stand up and look at the outline of her precious, little body under the covers.

“I think it’s ready now,” I say. “Time for prayers.”

“Let me start, Mommy,” she pleads.

I nod my head. “Go ahead.”

She carefully pulls her arms out from under the blanket that’s now molded around her and meticulously interlocks her fingers and closes her eyes.

I watch her. Then, I take a seat on the bed next to her and close my eyes as she starts her prayer.

“Dear God, thank you for Rover. And for my bestest friend Charlotte’s dog, Max. And please help that dog that me and Daddy saw yesterday at the animal doctor. Please help his leg to get better.”

She stops, and I open my eyes and find her eyelids still tightly closed and her fingers still interlocked.

“And God,” she continues, “please bless Mommy and Daddy and the boy who gave Mommy the ring.”

My heart melts at her words, and I start to smile again as I wait for her pretty blue eyes to open. They do a few seconds later, and then her little smile devours her face.

“And thank you, God,” I start, and she joins in immediately, and we both say it together: “For all you have given, for all you have taken away and for all you have left.”

She smiles again when we finish, and her eyes instantly travel to the other side of the room.

“Daddy!”

I look up and find Jorgen standing in the doorway. He laughs at our little, excited girl, and then he meets my stare.

“Hey, babe,” he says.

I shoot him a smile, and for a second, I’m caught in his perfect blue eyes. I swear I’ll never be immune to them.

“And how’s my little peanut?” he asks, making his way toward the bed.

He bends down and tickles her. She squirms and giggles until his fingers stop gently raking her sides.

“Daddy?” she asks, after she has calmed down again.

“Yes, dear?”

“Is Mommy your true love?”

Jorgen looks at me. I only shrug my shoulders and smile.

“Honey, Mommy’s my only love.”

I can see the corners of his mouth slowly turning up, and I get lost in him again. I love him for the man that he is and the woman he makes me. If Andrew taught me how to love, Jorgen taught me how to love again. He taught me how to smile again, how to laugh again, how to give my heart again. I love him. I love everything about him, even his crooked smile. He’s perfect, and he’s as sexy as the day I saw him with his shirt off through the peep hole in my little apartment with Hannah. His muscles are still nearly the size of Hannah’s thighs, and his eyes are still the most unique shade of blue I’ve ever come across. He’s in his navy work pants and white shirt. And near his collar, there’s a pin of Saint Michael.

My smile widens as he takes my hand and cradles it in his. But my eyes are still drawn to the shiny, silver pin. That same pin of Saint Michael was my hope when all hope seemed lost — that little nudge pushing me onward, assuring me that I would make it, promising me that I would feel again. But little did I know that afternoon, amongst the blood and the tears and the chaos, that my hope wasn’t the pin — but the man who gave it to me.