Page 63 of Five Summer Wishes

He didn’t ask why I was up here. Just climbed the ladder and joined me on the blanket like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He handed me a coffee. Sat beside me. Let his shoulder rest against mine.

“I had a dream once,” I said, voice low. “About a life that didn’t revolve around proving I was enough.”

He looked over at me. “And?”

“I think I’m finally living it.”

And we just sat there, side by side, while the day opened itself to us like a gift we’d stopped expecting to be allowed.

Later that night,we had dinner as a family again. Just the four of us. No plans. No themes. Just mismatched chairs and laughter and Lily’s latest drawing of all of us beneath a sky full of stars.

Willa had paint on her forearm. June had glitter in her hair. I felt whole.

We passed plates and stories and forks and memories across the table like we’d done it this way our whole lives.

And when the candles burned low and the air grew still, I looked around and said the words I didn’t know I’d been holding:

“I’m not going back.”

Willa smiled, warm and sure. “Good.”

June reached for my hand. “We wouldn’t let you.”

Lily raised her juice glass. “To us.”

And we all raised ours too.

Becauseus—this tangled, imperfect, chosen us—was the best thing we’d ever made.

EPILOGUE

JUNE

It’s September now.

The last of the summer sun stretches golden across the porch as I tuck a blanket around Lily’s legs. She’s curled up on the swing, reading one of her mystery books for the third time, sipping cider like she invented the season.

Inside, Grant’s in the kitchen. I can hear the hum of his voice as he talks to Harper about fixing the broken drawer near the pantry. She’s laughing, that real, unguarded sound she used to keep behind her teeth.

Iris’s journal is still on the windowsill. I haven’t opened it in a while.

Not because I’ve forgotten her—but because I finally stopped needing her voice more than my own.

The wishes led us here.

But the choice to stay?

That was all ours.

Willa

The gallery smells like paint,old wood, and promise.

My exhibit opens tomorrow night. I hung the last piece this morning—one I didn’t think I’d ever finish. It’s not flashy. Not loud. Just three hands, knotted at the wrist, outlined in gold and filled with scraps of our old lives—a swatch of Iris’s quilt, a photo of Lily’s tree, a recipe written in Harper’s handwriting.

I call itThe Wish.

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