When we got back, she was glowing—cheeks pink, eyes bright, laughing as she recounted Mrs. Davies's prediction that Tima would "have her mother's artist hands and her father's stubborn Swedish head."

"I feel like I've lived here my whole life," she said, settling into the sofa with Tima at her breast. "Like the cottage has always been waiting for us. Does that sound mad?"

"Completely mad," I said, kissing the top of her head. "Also completely true."

Steph came by that Saturday with Eira, who was now deeply invested in her role as "big girl." She'd brought a stuffed lamb—handmade, slightly wonky—that she presented to Tima with great ceremony.

"For baby Tima," Eira announced, placing it carefully in the Moses basket. "She can have it. I'm big now."

"You're very big," Mama agreed solemnly, while Steph and I tried not to laugh at the two-year-old's gravitas.

We sat in the garden while the girls napped inside, the adults arranged in a loose circle on the grass that was finally drying out after months of Welsh winter damp. The daffodils were everywhere now—bright, defiant yellow shouting against the grey stone walls.

"You look different," Steph said, studying Mama's face. "Settled."

"I feel settled," Mama said, tilting her face up to catch the sun. "I keep waiting for the fog to come back, for things to fragment again. But they're not. It's like... everything finally makes sense. The baby, this place, all of us. I'm not waiting to become whole anymore. I just am."

Steph smiled, that knowing, slightly sad smile of someone who's walked through fire. "Hold onto that," she said quietly. "Remember how this feels. The wholeness. The light."

"I will," Mama promised. "I'm drawing it all. Every moment. I want to remember everything."

One evening near the end of the month, I found Peter in his usual spot by the fire, a whisky in hand, watching Mama and Tima on the sofa. Mama was singing—some old Welsh lullaby Peter had taught her—and Tima was fighting sleep, her eyelids drooping and then snapping back open as if she might miss something important.

"She's going to be alright," Peter said quietly, nodding toward Mama. "I wasn't sure, back in September. But look at her now. That's not someone who's barely holding on. That's someone who's fully here."

"She found it," I said. "The thing she was looking for. Tamim."

"She did," Peter agreed. "And more than that—she's sharing it. You see the way she looks at that baby? That's pure love. No fear, no hesitation. Just... complete."

We sat in companionable silence, watching them. Mama had finally gotten Tima to sleep and was holding her against her chest, swaying slightly, her eyes closed, utterly at peace.

"Thank you," I said suddenly. "For all of it. The cottage, the space, the—everything."

"You don't thank family, boy," Peter said gruffly. "You just keep the circle going. When someone else needs a bridge, you'll be ready. That's how it works."