Chapter 118 EPILOGUE

Chapter 118 EPILOGUE
Gabriel Morgan

Five years have passed since our honeymoon, and I can say, without fear of exaggerating, that life has been incredibly generous to us.

Ethan recovered completely. He still gets routine checkups, just as a precaution to ensure the tumor doesn't return, but, thank God, there is no chance of a relapse.

Every appointment that ends with good news still makes my heart race, even after all this time. I think that fear never fully disappears; it just learns to live in silence.

We always travel. I make a point of it.

I want Ethan to see the world, everything that, for so long, he believed he would never have the chance to see.

I have already taken him to art exhibitions in several countries, to museums he dreamed of visiting, to concerts of his favorite singer—the kind where he cries secretly and then pretends it was just the emotion of the moment.

Our house became a reflection of the two of us. We built a library that doesn't have regular books, only our own albums. Photographs of trips, of simple moments, of spontaneous laughter.

We like to sit on the floor, open one of them, and relive memories, as if we were tasting each moment all over again.

Of course, not everything is perfect. Sometimes we fight, but never about serious things. Usually, it is because I overdo the care. I get so focused on protecting him that when he tries to take care of me, I say he doesn't need to.

That irritates him deeply.

It always has.

But after a conversation, a tighter hug, and a few truths spoken with affection, everything gets resolved.

My work, thank God, has only grown over the years. I managed to slow down when I needed to, reorganize priorities, and understand that no success is worth being absent.

Ethan, for his part, became a painter three years ago. And, a year ago, one of his paintings was displayed in an art gallery. Seeing his name there, seeing people standing in front of the artwork, analyzing, feeling... it was one of the most beautiful scenes of my life.

He lives free.

And that brings me more joy than any achievement of my own.

During these years, I let my beard grow. And Ethan became completely obsessed with it. He went so crazy that, after a few intense nights, he warned me with all the seriousness in the world that if I shaved it off, he would hit me.

I have never taken a threat so seriously.

He is now twenty-nine years old. His face has changed a bit with time—firmer features, a more secure gaze, and maturity drawn in every expression. He didn't lose his sweetness, but he gained something extra.

Something that captivates.

That calls out.

He got hot.

Too sexy.

And I never get tired of this man. I never get tired of looking at him, of touching him, of waking up next to him and realizing that time didn't pull us apart; it only deepened us.

My love for him has only grown even more.

My mother remains absolutely out of the ordinary. At sixty-five years old, she seems to never age. She keeps bossing everyone around, organizing family trips, and forcing us to spend Christmases and New Year's Eves together.

My in-laws keep living intensely, traveling with us whenever they can, joining the fun as if they were twenty-year-olds.

But this year is different.

Today is Christmas.

And, for the first time, Ethan and I decided that it would be here. We talked to everyone and let them know that Christmas would be at our house.

Our first Christmas here.

We always spent this date at my mother's house, at his mother's house, or traveling as a family.

But never here.

Never in our home.

I snap out of my thoughts when I hear voices approaching. I dry my hands on the kitchen towel and leave the kitchen, finding the door being opened at almost the exact same time.

“We're here!” my mother announces, as if she were walking into her own house. “Let's get these things organized before someone starves to death.”

My in-laws walk in right behind her, smiling, carrying bags and boxes.

“Finally, the first Christmas at my son's house,” my father-in-law says excitedly. “I was waiting for this.”

Before I can answer, I hear hurried footsteps on the stairs.

“Welcome!” Ethan appears at the top, with a huge smile on his face, coming down the steps almost in leaps.

He hugs his parents first, tightly, lingering. Then he goes over to my mother.

“I missed you so much, mother-in-law.”

“Me too, my boy,” she answers, returning the hug with strength.

I take advantage of the momentum and step closer to hug her too, but she simply sidesteps me.

“Don't even try,” she says seriously. “First put the things in their place. Then we hug.”

I roll my eyes automatically.

“Sure. Priorities.”

My mother-in-law bursts into laughter and pulls me into a tight hug.

“Ignore her, Gabriel,” she says, laughing. “I'm so incredibly happy to be here.”

My father-in-law hugs me next, patting me lightly on the back.

“Now show me where the backyard is. This grill isn't going to light itself.”

“Fifth door on the right,” I point. “The beer is already cold.”

His eyes light up.

“Then today is going to be a great day.”

While he heads to the backyard, my mother and my mother-in-law already start unloading the bags in the kitchen, talking at the same time.

“Careful with that over there.”

“Where do I put the desserts?”

“This table is too small.”

“Clara, did you bring the seasoning?”

“I brought it, but don't touch it yet!”

Ethan looks at me, highly amused.

“Do we pretend we run this house or do we just accept it?”

“Accept it,” I reply. “It's safer.”

He laughs and holds my hand.

“Shall we set up the tree?”

I nod, pulling him into the living room. The tree is already there, assembled, just waiting for the ornaments. Ethan drops to the floor, opening the boxes like a child.

“Look at this one!” He holds up a red bauble with glitter. “We bought this one in Paris.”

“And this one was in London,” I reply, picking up another. “You almost knocked an old gentleman over trying to take a picture.”

“He walked into my frame!”

We laugh together as we begin to decorate. Ethan stands on his tiptoes to reach the highest branches, and I steady the tree when it threatens to topple over.

“If it falls, your mother will kill me,” I warn.

“She already wants to kill you anyway,” he teases.

In the kitchen, I hear my mother turn on the stereo.

It is not Christmas music.

Far from it.

A song begins to play, loud and indecent, without any shame.

“MOM!” I yell from the living room.

“What?” she replies, carefree. “Good music livens up the room!”

My mother-in-law joins in immediately, shaking her hips while cutting something.

“Angela, I know this one!”