People like to talk about happy endings as if they're a reward. As if once the chaos settles and the confessions are made, everything after is soft, still, easy.
But that's a fairytale.
That's not the kind of ending I believe in.
In my life, my happy ending didn't come easy. My husband and I were officially divorced for eight months before we found our way back to each other. It wasn't dramatic, not at first—it was the quiet ache of realizing what we had... and what we were about to lose forever. Getting back together wasn't the end of the story. It was the start of the work. And ever since, we've been showing up—learning, unlearning, growing together. Some days are quiet. Some days are not. But it's real. And it's ours.
That's the kind of ending I write.
In every one of my stories, there's a moment where it almost falls apart. Where the characters don't realize what they have until it's nearly gone. Some feel it like a whisper. Others, like a scream. But that turning point is always there—and so is the choice. To stay. To try. To earn the future they thought they might've lost.
Because the ideal endings? They're just illusions. Someone always has to bury something to keep them looking perfect.
But real endings? The ones that come after sweat and scars and late-night reckonings? Those are the ones that last.