Peter stood by the car door, watching as I helped Mama out, her movements still stiff and careful. He looked at the baby, then at the cottage, and finally at us.

"The fortress is ready," he said, his voice unusually soft. He reached out and touched Tima's tiny, velvet cheek with one calloused finger. "Welcome home, little bird. Try not to wake me up before six, alright?"

We walked through the gate, the gravel crunching under our feet. The ivy on the walls was still red, the tiny Christmas tree still sat in its pot by the door, and the woodsmoke from the hearth was rising steadily into the afternoon air. We weren't visitors anymore. We weren't "the kids in the cottage." This was our world.

That night, the cottage felt different. It was smaller, warmer, and infinitely more crowded. We didn't bother with the crib. Not yet. We climbed into the big bed upstairs, the one that had felt so cavernous when I was in Sweden.

Mama lay in the center, propped up by a mountain of pillows, with Tima tucked into the crook of her arm. I lay on the other side, my arm draped over both of them, my hand resting on the small, rhythmic rise and fall of Mama's chest.

The room was lit only by the faint glow of a nightlight and the dying embers of the fire downstairs. For the first time in months, the "drift" was nowhere to be found. Mama's mind was anchored by the physical weight of her daughter. She looked at me, her eyes clear and peaceful.

"We did it," she whispered.

"We did," I said, leaning over to kiss her forehead, then the top of the baby's head. "The bridge held."

"It's not a bridge anymore," she murmured, her eyes drifting shut. "It's a house. We're inside now."

I stayed awake for a long time, watching them sleep. I thought about the year behind us—the art camp, the London arguments, the canal fog, and the long, cold nights in the Valleys. I thought about Peter and Steph, our shield and our anchor, probably sitting in their own homes nearby, keeping watch. We were eighteen and seventeen, and the world was still a terrifying, beautiful mess, but as I listened to the two of them breathe in unison, I knew that the "wholeness" Mama had found was contagious.

The next morning, the sun rose over the Machen mountain with a startling, brilliant clarity. I woke up first, slipping out of bed to go downstairs and start the fire. Peter was already in the kitchen, his "World's Okayest" mug in hand, staring out the window at the garden.

"Look," he said, nodding toward the frost-covered earth near the back wall.