Steph started coming by three times a week, always arriving just as the light was fading, always carrying something warm in a covered dish. It became a ritual: the sound of her car on the gravel, the knock that wasn't really a knock because she'd already be opening the door, calling out "It's just me, don't get up."

One Thursday evening in mid-January, she arrived with a casserole dish that smelled like rosemary and something rich and meaty. "Cawl," she announced, setting it on the kitchen counter. "Proper Welsh stew. None of that English nonsense with carrots that still have a spine. This has been cooking since this morning."

Mama was on the sofa, her feet up on a cushion, looking exhausted but grateful. "You're spoiling us," she said.

"Someone has to," Steph said, ladling out bowls with the efficiency of someone who'd fed many people in her time. "You lot would live on toast and good intentions if I left you to it. And that Swede of yours would burn water if I didn't check in, bless him."

We ate in the living room, the four of us arranged around the fire like we'd been doing this for years instead of months. Steph settled into the armchair, her bowl balanced on her lap, watching Mama with the steady, assessing gaze of someone who knew how to read the signs.

"How are you really?" she asked, once we'd all had a few bites and the warmth of the food had settled in.

Mama looked up, surprised by the directness. "Tired," she said. "Scared. Excited. All of it at once. I keep thinking about the hospital, about what if something goes wrong, about what if I can't do it—"

"Stop," Steph said gently but firmly. "You're doing it already, cariad. You've been doing it for months. The labor? That's just the final stretch. You've already run the marathon, love. The birth is just the bit where everyone watches."

She set her bowl down and leaned forward. "When Eira came to me, she was only a few months old. I was twenty-five and I thought I knew nothing. Turns out, you don't need to know everything—you just need to show up. Every day. And you've got something I didn't have at first—you've got people. Real people who aren't going anywhere."

The fire cracked and popped, filling the silence. Papa reached over and took Mama's hand, and I saw Steph notice it, saw the small nod of approval.

"The circle's strong," Steph said quietly. "I can feel it. The baby will feel it too. She's coming into a safe place. That's more than most of us get."

Later, after we'd finished the stew and Steph had insisted on washing up despite our protests, she stood at the door pulling on her coat. "I'll be here," she said, looking at Mama. "When it's time. I'll be at the hospital. You won't be alone."