Page 119 of October
My name is Jimmy. I'm learning—every day—how to become a good husband. Not just the kind who shows up with flowers on anniversaries, but the kind who listens, who apologizes when he's wrong, who knows that love is a verb, not just a feeling.
I'm becoming that man because I watched my dad make wrong decisions.. and then stay long enough to fix them. I watched him lose himself for a while but I also watched him come back. I watched him choose us, every single day, even when it was hard. Even when we didn't make it easy.
I'm becoming that man because I watched my mom carry pain quietly for years, never loud or dramatic, but heavy all the same. She bore it with a strength that didn't announce itself with fanfare, but with a steady, unyielding resolve. I saw her stand up for herself after a while, slowly but surely refusing to fall back into the old habits and patterns that had trapped them both.
She became fierce in a new way, strong not just for us, but for herself. She chased down her dreams building a life that was hers and hers alone, piece by deliberate piece; and through it all, she made my dad work for it in a way that made him prove every day that he was worthy of her trust again.
I saw him change, because she never settled. She pushed him gently, demanded more than words, asked for the man she needed, not the man he used to be. Watching that taught me what love really means not just a feeling, but a choice. A continuous effort. A fight worth having.
That's who I want to be. The kind of man who holds steady under pressure, who knows the weight of silence and still shows up anyway. The kind of man who doesn't take love for granted, who knows it's earned over and over again, in small moments as much as big ones.
Because I watched my mom—my warrior queen—carry pain and refuse to let it break her.
I am Jimmy.
And I grow because I was raised in the wreckageandthe rebuilding. I grew in the spaces between silent tears and slow forgiveness, between teary apologies and second chances.
I am Jimmy.
I come from a family that taught me how to fall and get back up. A family that turned hard years into healing. A family that still shows up at dinner even if they argued over who left the fridge open. Now, I get to take everything I've learned, the good, the broken, the beautiful, and build something new. With someone I love.
A future that's ours. A future that I'll fight for, just like they did.
Because I am Jimmy.
And I was raised to love with both hands.
Epilogue 2
My name is October.
I'm one of the Odd Ones. Not the loudest in the room. Not the one with the perfectly timed joke or the dazzling story that makes everyone lean in. I'm not the one people remember first or tag in photos with captions likebest night ever. I enter rooms quietly, with the kind of presence that doesn't demand attention, but I'm there. Always. I show up when it matters. Year after year, gathering after gathering. In the ways that count, even if few notice.
My life doesn't leave much space for anything loud or shiny. It's soft around the edges, filled with motherhood, perfume bottles, early mornings, and quiet rituals. I run a little shop that smellslike memory: rose and sandalwood, amber and citrus, the kind of place that pulls people in and slows their breathing.
But underneath all that calm? There's a story.
Because my husband and I... we went through something that shattered us.
The kind of heartbreak that doesn't happen all at once but in pieces. Like a slow leak in a boat you don't realize is sinking until the water's at your knees. We fought in ways I never thought we would. There were nights I hated him and night I hated that I loved him. Mornings we moved around each other like strangers in the same home. Sometimes, I sharpened my words like knives and he used silence like walls, and yes—there were divorce papers. I never signed them. I still have them.
Not as a threat. Not out of spite, but as a reminder. A quiet, aching reminder of how close he came to throwing it all away. They remind me that love is not a promise sealed forever in some golden hour version of our wedding day. It's fragile. It gets lost. Buried under laundry, under exhaustion, under the bitterness of who hurt who first, and it must be chosen—again and again. Even when you're angry. Even when it would be easier to walk away.
We are still choosing each other because we remember. Some days are easier. Some days we slip. But we get back up. We speak more gently now. We apologize faster. We hold hands more, even in silence. We laugh in shorter bursts but with deeper roots and every so often, when he looks at me like he used to, or whispers something only I would understand, I feel it. Not just the love.
The choice, and that's the most sacred part. We keep those papers because we learned. We learned how fragile "forever" can be if we stop tending to it. We learned to talk differently, to listen more. To say "I'm sorry" faster. To hold each other tighter, not just in joy, but in the middle of the mess, too.
So no, I'm not the loudest in the room. Not the one people orbit around. But I am here. Still standing. Still loving. Still choosing, and to me, that counts for everything.
On our second anniversary—post-breakup—he gave me a box filled with letters.
There were letters. Dozens of them. Tucked away in the back of his nightstand drawer like he'd been writing to a version of me he wasn't sure would ever read them. Letters he wrote during that impossible time when we were trying, haltingly, messily, painfully, to rekindle what we thought we'd lost.
They weren't grand declarations. Some were only a paragraph. Some rambled. Some looped back on themselves like he couldn't quite find the point, but they were honest. Unfiltered. Full of aching regret and unvarnished love. One had coffee stains on it. Another had a tiny drawing of a dog in the margin.
I read them all in one sitting, curled up on our kitchen floor, knees pulled to my chest, a mug of cold tea forgotten beside me. The house was quiet, save for the sound of the dishwasher humming and the occasional creak of old floorboards. I didn't cry. Not at first. I just sat there and let every word sink in.
Because for the first time in a long time, I felt the full weight of his devotion. Not just the love he had for me, which had always been there, but theworkhe was willing to do. The daily, humble effort. The kind that doesn't shout or chase; it just stays.
