On the last night of March, after Tima was down and Peter had gone home, Mama pulled out a large piece of paper she'd been working on for days. She spread it on the kitchen table, and I stood behind her, my hands on her shoulders, looking down at what she'd created.

It was the cottage. But not just the cottage—it was the whole story. The stone walls drawn in careful detail, smoke rising from the chimney. Peter standing in the garden with his arms crossed. Steph and Eira at the gate. Me holding Tima in the doorway. And in the foreground, bursting through the earth in exaggerated, joyful size, a field of daffodils.

At the bottom, in her careful script, she'd written: "The Fortress / February-March 2007"

"It's for Tima," she said. "For when she's older. So she knows where she came from. So she knows she was wanted and loved and held from the very first breath."

I wrapped my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her head, both of us looking at the drawing. At the life we'd built from nothing but stubbornness and grace.

"She'll know," I said. "We'll make sure she knows."

Mama leaned back into me, her hand covering mine. Outside, the valley was settling into its spring dark, the hills outlined against the stars. Inside, our daughter slept, safe and warm. The story that had started with fog and fracture had become something whole and bright.

We had found our home. We had found ourselves. And in this moment, in this cottage on this hill, we were exactly where we were meant to be.

The daffodils would keep blooming, and we would keep holding on.