The strangeness of our situation often hit me in the quiet hours. Peter was the silent engine behind everything. He paid the rent on the cottage, he kept the electricity meter fed, and he seemed to have an endless supply of "jobs" in Newport or Cardiff that resulted in bags of groceries appearing on the counter like magic. He never asked for a penny. He never made a ledger of our debts. To him, we weren't tenants; we were the family he had decided to keep.

"You're doing that thing again," Mama said, leaning over my shoulder with a mug of herbal tea. "The 'Math Face.' It makes you look like a very stressed owl."

"I just... I want to chip in more," I muttered, closing the laptop with a sigh. "I feel like a boarder who's overstayed his welcome. Peter's doing everything."

"Peter is being Peter," she countered, sliding into the chair beside me. Her bump was now a prominent part of our geography, a physical reminder of why the math didn't really matter as much as the survival. "He's been the bridge for so long, I don't think he knows how to be anything else. Besides, he likes having someone to cook for who doesn't complain about the amount of leeks in everything."

I looked at the stone walls, the warmth of the fire, and the girl beside me. I was seventeen, and in Sweden, I would have been worrying about exam grades and which winter jacket to buy. Here, I was navigating the terrifying economics of a life I hadn't expected to lead. But as I reached out and felt the "little bird" kick against the table's edge, I realized that Peter wasn't paying for a room; he was paying for a future. And that was a debt I could only pay back by staying.

Early December called for a mission. Peter had decided that the cottage needed "festive fortification," and that meant a trip to Newport Market. We met Steph and Eira outside the massive Victorian entrance, the air smelling of bus exhaust and the sharp, briny scent of the nearby estuary.

Newport Market was a cathedral of the everyday. Under the high, wrought-iron arches and the vast glass ceiling, the world was a cacophony of Welsh accents, the clatter of butcher's knives, and the sweet, yeasty aroma of Welsh cakes browning on a griddle.

Eira was a blur of energy in a bright red coat, her small boots clicking on the tiles as she led the way toward the back of the market where the greenery was sold. Steph walked beside Mama, the two of them deep in a conversation about baby blankets and the "best" kind of wool that didn't itch. I followed behind with Peter, feeling the strange, comforting gravity of our little group.

"We need a tree," Eira announced, stopping in front of a forest of pines huddled in the corner of the market. "A big one! For the baby!"