The lights on the tree were blinking—purple, then blue, then gold. Everything was glowing. I felt sleepy-warm, like a toasted marshmallow. I climbed into Peter's lap because his jumper is scratchy but he is very steady. He stayed still while I watched the train. The house felt like a big hug that wouldn't let go.

The air inside Steph's house had become thick with the heat of the oven and the high-pitched energy of Eira's excitement. By eight o'clock, the toddler had finally succumbed to the "sleepy-warm" and was curled up on Peter's lap, a tiny, snoring reindeer.

"I need air," Steph whispered, catching my eye. "Just ten minutes?"

I nodded, grateful for the excuse. We pulled on our coats and stepped out into the Ty Sign night. The estate was a patchwork of festive lights—blue icicles hanging from gutters, glowing Santas in windows, and the distant, rhythmic blink of a lighthouse-style decoration down the street. We walked toward the canal path that bordered the edge of the estate, our boots muffled by the damp pavement.

The canal here felt different than it did in Crosskeys. It was lower, more settled, hugged by the backs of gardens and the sleeping silhouettes of suburban trees. The water was a dark, unmoving mirror.

"She's getting heavy," Steph said, nodding toward my stomach. Her voice was grounded, stripped of the "hostess" energy she'd worn all evening.

"She's restless," I admitted, resting my hands on the arc of my belly. "I think she liked the sausages. Or maybe the singing. Every time Eira laughed, I felt a kick."

We walked in silence for a few minutes, the cold air stinging my cheeks and clearing the "drift" that usually tried to settle in during large gatherings. With Steph, the fog never felt like a threat. She didn't look for the "broken" parts of me; she just accepted the weather as it came.

"I'm scared, Steph," I said, the words finally finding the air. "The closer we get to February, the more I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a very tall cliff. My parents... their voices are still in my head. They think I'm going to shatter when the pain starts. They think I'll go somewhere else and leave her alone."

Steph stopped by a wooden bench overlooking the water. She turned to face me, her purple shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. In the moonlight, her eyes looked like polished flint—dark, hard, and ancient.

"You aren't going to shatter," she said, her voice steady. "You might bend. You might even break a little. That's what birth is—it's the breaking open of one version of yourself to let a new one out. But you won't be alone. You have the Swede. You have the Old Man."