We Are Us

Epilogue Sackett, Co

Three years later, Poppy

We are the only ones at the cemetery this morning, and Valentina’s tiny hand is soft and damp inside my own. “Belly Mama is here?” she asks, looking around the forest of gray headstones, most of them taller than she is. We’ve been coming to visit Sadie’s grave once a month since her burial, but Valentina’s only just begun stringing words together into sentences, and these are hard words to hear.

My throat tightens as I struggle to swallow the enormous lump of remorse blocking my vocal chords. “No, sweetheart,” I finally manage. “Belly Mama is in Heaven. But she’s always smiling down on you, and I know she’ll love the bouquet you picked for her.” A riotous assortment of wildflowers is clutched within her other hand, already wilting from the unusual heat and humidity of the morning.

Valentina’s face brightens, and my heart immediately swells in response. It is a feeling I should be used to by now, after two and a half years with her. But somehow, every time I think I ca

I ca

Gavin and I live a quiet life with Valentina now, in Sackett. It’s changed a lot since we were in school here. It still has a cozy New England vibe, but a burst of new construction in the past ten years has added new life to the old town. They even incorporated the school system into one district.

Last year, on one of our trips to the cemetery where I chose to bury Sadie, the same cemetery Gavin and I had explored as teenagers, we saw a sign for an Open House. A charming colonial that backed up to the nature preserve where Gavin and I first met and fell in love. We made it our home the very next month.

The life I shared with Tucker seems light years removed from the one I live now. My days are simple, trimmed of all the negativity and self-doubt that once cluttered my mind. Every choice I make is governed by love, and it is a flawless moral compass.

We find Sadie’s headstone, which is right beside the headstone for my twins. They are buried together, just as they shared my womb together.

Tucker had wanted to bury them beside his parents, but I refused. We both dug our heels in, the last spark of our doomed marriage. Sadie had stuck up for me, I remember. Telling Tucker that it might help me process my grief if I chose their final resting place. So now, they all sleep beneath the stars together.

One day, when Valentina can understand, I will tell her about her angel siblings. But for now, I press a kiss to their stone as Valentina lays her flowers on the grass in front of Sadie’s. There is no epitaph, just the facts. My sister’s name and the years of her birth and death. Valentina runs her still pudgy fingers along the inscribed letters and numbers. A

Sadie didn’t die from her bullet wound, or Valentina wouldn’t be here with me. My sister received stitches and was sent to prison to await trail. Her lawyer asked for remand, offering Sadie’s help locating Tucker if they allowed her to remain free until trial. But at the last minute, Sadie decided not to cooperate, holding out hope that she would be acquitted of all charges and then be free to join Tucker… wherever he was.

Wren was arrested for trafficking in stolen art. In exchange for a suspended sentence, she flipped on Tucker and shared everything she knew about his money laundering. And she knew a lot. The clients he got involved with, in an effort to hide losses on Stockton Capital’s balance sheet and stave off critics who said the company had been better off under his father’s leadership, were Wren’s first. She made the introductions, a way of proving that herself to Tucker. Such hubris, all of them.

During the final days of Sadie’s pregnancy, Tucker was located. As it turns out, even in countries with no extradition treaties, locals are suspicious of Americans who throw their money around. His crimes were reported all over the world, alongside his picture. But it wasn’t the United States government that found him, much to Gavin’s chagrin. No, he was found—and killed—by the men he stole from, maybe even by the man who came into my bedroom in the middle of the night.

I haven’t been able to bring myself to look at the images that are too gruesome to be shown on network television, but are all too accessible online. Gavin assures me we are safe. Apparently, they reclaimed most, if not all, of the money Tucker had managed to hide overseas, and then they killed the man who had si

Just before Sadie gave birth, she begged me to raise her child. Her dream of a life with Tucker was gone, her conviction was inevitable, and she couldn’t bear the thought of her son or daughter entering the foster care system. Neither could I. I took custody of Valentina mere hours later, choosing her name for its meaning—brave. And because she had the most perfect, heart-shaped face I’d ever seen.

We hadn’t even arrived home before my phone rang with the news that Sadie had killed herself. She’d been on suicide watch for most of her pregnancy, crushed by the loss of the idyllic life she had envisioned with Tucker. But Sadie had loved the child they made together, and I’m eternally grateful she managed to hold on long enough to see her safely delivered. Even so, the news was a shock, and for the first few months of Valentina’s life, I felt like I had murdered my sister and kidnapped her daughter. But as time went on, and we racked up milestones together—first smile, first laugh, first tooth, first steps, first word—Valentina and I became mother and daughter, in every way except for her birth.

Gavin and I learned how to become parents together. He usually handled the sleepless nights and diaper blowouts and colicky cries better than I did, soothing both me and Valentina at the same time. We became a family.

Financially, we are okay, too. As the Stockton’s only grandchild, Valentina has an enormous trust fund, and between Gavin’s FBI salary and mine as a program coordinator for TeenCharter, we are comfortable. Everything else: the Manhattan apartment, international vacation homes, cars, art, furniture, Tucker’s watch collection and all the jewelry he had given me over the years, including my engagement ring and wedding band—was all seized by Uncle Sam.

I don’t miss any of it. We have a roof over our heads, food in the fridge, and love in our hearts. I found a therapist who has helped me process the trauma I’d experienced as a child and then a teenager, which sent me down a strange, distorted path. And now I’m living a life I didn’t know enough to wish for. Not glamorous, not exciting, not excessive. Not even perfect, but that’s okay too. Days of joy are made even sweeter by moments of sadness. The bright sheen of happiness is occasionally dulled by frustration. And my contentment is a steady, rising tide.