I took a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs. This was the question that had been hovering in the back of my mind since the day we met in the Newport cafe. It was the final piece of the "Found Family" architecture.

"Steph... when it happens... when she's ready to come... will you be there?" I asked. I felt my heart hammer against my ribs. "I mean, in the room. With us? Peter's the anchor, and Papa is my heart, but... I think I need someone who knows how to hold the light. Someone who knows that the 'drift' isn't a failure."

Steph didn't hesitate. She didn't ask about hospital regulations or family hierarchies. She just reached out and took my hands in hers. Her grip was calloused and warm, the hands of a woman who had raised a child that wasn't hers by blood but was hers by soul.

"I'll be there," she promised. "I'll be the one standing at the door, making sure the world stays outside until you're ready for it. I've seen you, Mama. I've seen the way you hold yourself when the fog comes. You're a warrior, even if you don't believe it yet. And every warrior needs a shield-bearer."

We stood there by the dark canal for a long time, the silence of Ty Sign wrapping around us. For the first time, February didn't feel like a cliff. It felt like a doorway. We walked back to the house, the festive lights of the estate looking less like decorations and more like beacons, guiding us back to the warmth where our family—the one we had chosen, stone by stone—was waiting.

The transition from the warmth of Christmas Eve to the sharp, industrial cold of January felt like a door slamming shut. The festive lights of Ty Sign were packed away into dusty boxes, leaving the Valleys to return to their natural state: a study in every possible shade of grey. But as the calendar turned, the "Found Family" didn't retreat; we simply drew the circle tighter. The cottage was no longer just a place we were staying; it was becoming the center of a new gravity.

New Year's Eve didn't bring a party to the cottage; it brought a quiet vigil. We didn't want the noise of the pubs or the crowded squares of Cardiff. Instead, as the clock neared midnight, we wrapped Mama in every blanket we could find and drove the short, steep distance up to the Scenic Forest Drive that wound behind Crosskeys.

From that high vantage point, the Ebbw Valley laid itself out like a map of light. The small towns—Risca, Crosskeys, Abercarn—were clusters of amber and white glowing in the black depths of the valley floor. When the hour struck, tiny bursts of color began to bloom far below us. From this height, the fireworks looked small and silent, fragile sparks against the ancient, indifferent weight of the mountains.