Chapter 141: What I Would Choose Again

Rowan asked me a dangerous question on our anniversary. "If you could go back, would you do it all again?" "No." His expression collapsed. I let him suffer for three seconds. Then I laughed. "That question is ridiculous." "You could have led with that." "You deserved the panic."

We were sitting beneath the cedar after dinner. The family had gone home. The night was cool. Rowan had brought a blanket because age had apparently turned the former Supreme Alpha into a responsible person. He asked again, more carefully. "What would you change?" That answer was easy. "I'd eat." His smile disappeared.

I would tell the girl starving herself at night that hunger was not romance. I would tell her collapsing during training was not proof of devotion. I would tell her she did not need to shrink before she was allowed to be seen. I would save her body that year of punishment if I could.

I would expose Knox sooner. Not publicly for revenge. Privately, clearly. I would refuse to beg someone to stay after he said he was tired of me. I would demand Rowan tell me his identity before meeting him. I would still go to Greyhaven only after knowing exactly who waited there.

Rowan listened without interrupting. "Would you still choose me?" "That's not the same question." His jaw tightened. I took his hand. "Yes." The tension left him.

But I would choose him differently. Not because the Moon Goddess had shouted mate inside my chest. Not because he was beautiful. Not because he became Supreme Alpha. Not because Knox had rejected me. I would choose Rowan after the truth. After seeing how he behaved when I disagreed. After watching whether he respected no. After learning whether his apologies changed anything.

I would choose Lunaris again. I would choose Rhea. I would choose the Seraphina Center. I would choose our children. But I would not choose the pain simply because good things eventually grew around it. That distinction mattered.

Rowan leaned back against the cedar. "I'd change things too." "Like?" "I would've told Knox to handle his own breakup." "Excellent start." "I would've contacted you as myself." "Better." "I would've brought fewer roses." "No. Keep the roses." He laughed.

Then he became serious. "I would've made sure you knew you could leave me from the beginning." I looked at him. That might have been the answer that contained our entire marriage.

At seventeen, I thought the perfect love was one nobody could leave. At fifty-seven, I knew better. The safest love was one in which the door remained unlocked and neither person had to stand in front of it. I rested my head on Rowan's shoulder. "If I could go back, I'd change a lot." "Me too." "But from here?" I looked at our hands. "I choose this." He kissed my hair. "From here," he said, "me too."

By this stage of my life, I no longer trusted dramatic declarations as much as repeated behavior. A promise mattered because of what happened the next morning, and the morning after that. Rowan and I had learned this through mistakes, apologies, parenthood, leadership, and all the ordinary days nobody would ever write songs about.

The strange thing about healing was that it did not erase memory. I could remember exactly how humiliation had felt without becoming the girl trapped inside it again. The past remained available to me, but it no longer had authority over every decision. That distinction had taken years to build.

I had once believed the Moon Goddess wrote complete stories. Now I thought she might only open doors, illuminate paths, or place possibilities within reach. Walking through them was ours. Staying was ours. Leaving was ours. Love became meaningful because choice remained possible.

Our children had grown into lives that did not orbit us, which was precisely what we had hoped for. Lunaris had leaders who did not carry our blood. The institutions we helped build had learned to function without our names at the center. Even our love had become quieter, less interested in proving itself to anyone.

By this stage of my life, I no longer trusted dramatic declarations as much as repeated behavior. A promise mattered because of what happened the next morning, and the morning after that. Rowan and I had learned this through mistakes, apologies, parenthood, leadership, and all the ordinary days nobody would ever write songs about.

The strange thing about healing was that it did not erase memory. I could remember exactly how humiliation had felt without becoming the girl trapped inside it again. The past remained available to me, but it no longer had authority over every decision. That distinction had taken years to build.

I had once believed the Moon Goddess wrote complete stories. Now I thought she might only open doors, illuminate paths, or place possibilities within reach. Walking through them was ours. Staying was ours. Leaving was ours. Love became meaningful because choice remained possible.

Our children had grown into lives that did not orbit us, which was precisely what we had hoped for. Lunaris had leaders who did not carry our blood. The institutions we helped build had learned to function without our names at the center. Even our love had become quieter, less interested in proving itself to anyone.