Archive of Our Own

October 27th to December

Mary's funeral brought the whole family back to the Isle. The weather matched the mood of the day—low clouds pressing heavily against the sea, the air sharp with salt and winter rain. People moved quietly through the churchyard, black coats bending beneath the wind while condolences blurred together into meaningless murmurs. It was hard on everyone.

Especially Molly. She had always been the closest to her grandmother. Cathy stood slightly apart from the others, an untouched cigarette trapped between her fingers. Every so often, her eyes drifted toward Rosaline.

She had always had a soft spot for Mary's eldest daughter. Even before properly meeting her. Even before being dragged into the tangled knot of secrets, grief, affairs, and lies Mary had left behind. And over those strange weeks on the Isle, she had watched Rosaline soften around Jacob in a way that felt almost painful to witness. Like watching someone thaw after years spent frozen solid.

By then, Rosaline had gotten a job on the island. They would have been fools not to offer it to her; her work in London had been exceptional. Efficient. Brilliant. Ruthlessly competent.

Her flat had been packed away piece by piece, the rest rented out. She kept telling herself it was temporary.

Practical.

Flexible.

But slowly, without quite meaning to, she began building a life on the Isle of Man. And Jacob slipped into it so naturally it frightened her. Unlike most of her previous affairs, this had not remained purely physical.

It became easy.

Comfortable.

Dangerously uncomplicated.

They would spend hours sitting in his taxi after he picked her up from work, the heater blasting against the freezing coastal wind, the windows fogging up around them.

"You're doing it again," Jacob would say softly, noticing her staring out blankly at the dark waves cresting in the distance.

"Doing what?" she'd ask, masking her vulnerability with a sharp, defensive look, shifting her handbag tightly into her lap. "I'm just watching the water, Jacob. There's no law against looking at the sea."

"Retreating," he'd reply simply, reaching over to gently squeeze her hand, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles. "You pull the shutters down, Ross. I can practically hear the bolts sliding into place from over here."

It was that effortless, quiet understanding that terrified her the most. Or at least that was what Rosaline kept trying to convince herself. She had not had a real relationship in years.

Before cancer, she had dreamed about ordinary things—boyfriends, dates, marriage, children. Then illness ripped through her life before she had properly become herself. Hospitals replaced parties. Medication replaced love letters. Her mother and sister hovering nearby became more familiar than freedom. And when she finally recovered and left for university, she made herself a promise: Never become someone else's burden again.

No serious relationships.

No dependence.

No names on emergency contact forms.

Quick encounters were easier. Cleaner.

Men. Single or not, she rarely cared (sometimes women). Bodies without expectations. Desire without permanence.

Yet, somewhere deep inside her, the dream of family had never truly disappeared. When Becca married and later had Lauren and Molly, Rosaline briefly allowed herself to imagine there might still be time. By then she had a successful career, a beautiful flat, and a relationship that perhaps could have become something meaningful. So she told him about the cancer. Never about the fear. He had been the first person outside her family she trusted enough to know.

How stupid she had been. The look on his face remained burned into her memory forever.

Not cruelty. Worse : Pity. 

Then the cancer came back, and he left before treatment had even properly begun. He had made excuses, of course. "I just want you to focus entirely on getting better right now, without any distractions," he had said, refusing to look her in the eye as he packed a small duffel bag, his movements hurried and shameful. "It's what's best for both of us" But Rosaline had seen right through it. It wasn't about her focus; it was about his inability to handle the reality of a broken body, the terror of a partner who might not survive. That abandonment had carved a permanent rule into her heart.

Meanwhile, Becca had once again been forced to put her own life aside to care for her sister. Two small daughters at home while she slept in uncomfortable hospital chairs beside Rosaline's bed, living off vending machine coffee and sheer anxiety. After that, Rosaline stopped looking for permanence altogether.

But Jacob entered her life precisely when everything else was collapsing. Her mother's death.

The affair.

The secrets.

Becca unraveling.

Her father's bitterness.

Her own health scare. 

And Cathy—whom Rosaline had thought she could trust completely—admitting her involvement in hiding the truth surrounding Mary's death. She might not have given Mary the morphine herself, but that first meeting had still begun with a lie. But not Jacob. Jacob had simply stayed.

Listening.

Never judging.

Never demanding.

Just there. And Rosaline found herself slowly relearning things she had forgotten how to want.

That it was alright to stay afterward. To fall asleep tucked against another body.

To wake beside somebody and have breakfast together instead of leaving before dawn, slipping out like a thief. Most evenings they walked along the lake, which had somehow become their place. The place where she had laughed properly for the first time in years.

The place where he had kissed her. And she had kissed him back.

He would tell her stories from his childhood or local fairy folklore while she pretended not to enjoy them nearly as much as she actually did. Most mornings he drove her to work.

On those early morning drives, he always made sure a travel mug of hot tea and sliced lemon was waiting in the cup holder, instinctively noticing before she did how the smell of coffee made her wince.

"You look a bit peaky today, Ross," he remarked one Tuesday morning, catching her eye as she pulled her coat tighter around herself. "Are you sleeping alright at night? You look like you're miles away."

"Just a heavy workload at the new firm, that's all," she lied smoothly, swallowing down a sudden wave of dizziness that made the dashboard tilt.

"Don't overwork yourself. This island isn't going anywhere, and neither am I," he murmured, his steady, unhurried voice temporarily grounding her frayed nerves as he shifted gears.

Whatever this thing between them was becoming, it felt dangerously close to home.

Even Becca noticed. The sisters spoke at least once a week now, something neither of them had managed consistently in years. And every single call ended the same way.

"How's your taxi driver?"

Rosaline always rolled her eyes. Yet a smile still tugged at her lips.

It had not been an easy road, but things had finally begun to fall into place. Which was precisely why the fear hit so hard when winter arrived.

At first it was subtle.

A strange exhaustion. A heaviness behind her eyes.

Nausea that came and went.

Then slowly, panic rooted itself deep inside her mind. What if the biopsy had been wrong? False negatives happened. Didn't they? As the sickness worsened, Rosaline withdrew into herself without fully realizing it. Her defenses rose instinctively. She became sharp-tongued. Irritable. Restless.

She picked fights over nothing.

Even when Jacob remained endlessly patient.

And afterward she always hated herself for it. But her body ached constantly now. Her breasts were tender. Her lower back throbbed. Almost any smell turned her stomach upside down.

Cancer.

It had to be cancer.

And Jacob did not deserve that. He barely knew her. He was kind now, of course. Anyone could be kind in the beginning. But illness wore people down eventually.

Rosaline knew that better than anyone.

Better he leave now.

Before things became ugly.

She began planning her exit strategy, mentally drafting the speech to end things before he was forced to see her deteriorate. She didn't want him holding a plastic bowl by her bedside. She didn't want to see that awful, suffocating pity in his eyes. If she pushed him away now, she could at least preserve the memory of his kindness intact, rather than watching it sour into resentment.

One evening at Jacob's house, he was making dinner while she sat miserably at the kitchen table wrapped in one of his heavy wool jumpers. Then the smell reached her—the heavy, oily scent of frying onions.

Moments later she was at the sink, gagging and retching for what felt like the fifth time that day, her knuckles turning white against the porcelain. Jacob rubbed her back gently, his hand a warm, steady weight through the fabric.

"Is everything alright? Ross, talk to me. You've been like this all evening."

"I'm fine," she wheezed, shaking him off and turning the cold tap on to rinse her mouth. "Just an upset stomach. Stop hovering."

"You don't look fine to me." His voice softened further, dropping to that low, patient register that usually bypassed her armor. "Ross... I'm here. No matter what it is. You don't have to hide in the bathroom."

"You don't know that," she said, her voice shaking as she backed away from him. "You can't promise that."

"What's happening? Just tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

Bile rose painfully in her throat again. She needed to leave. Right now.

"Nothing," she snapped, her eyes flashing with a desperate, defensive anger. "It's just... you. This. Us. It's too much."

Jacob frowned, his hands dropping to his sides. "What does that mean?"

"I told you I don't do relationships," she continued harshly, the words tasting like ash. "They never work out for me. This ain't Neverland, Jacob. Fairies don't make things better, and magic doesn't fix a broken life. We're an affair. That's all this is. So just stop trying to fix me." The hurt that crossed his face nearly undid her. But she left before she could take it back, slamming the door behind her into the cold night air.

Afterward she ignored every attempt he made to contact her.

Ten missed calls.

Countless texts.

Voicemails she could not bear to hear.

That night she curled on the sofa beside Hwin—her mother's cat, now technically hers, which she named after a character from her favourite book, The Chronicles of Narnia—while Jacob knocked endlessly at the door, calling her name into the dark porch. And Rosaline cried so hard her chest hurt, pressing her face into the cushions to drown out the sound of his voice.

Hwin nudged her hand, purring softly as if trying to absorb the heavy grief in the small room. Outside, Jacob's footsteps finally retreated, the sound of his car engine fading down the road. She felt utterly isolated, trapped in the familiar, terrifying prison of her own mind, waiting for the inevitable hammer blow of a medical diagnosis.

December 9th

Three days passed.

Three days without answering him.

Three days without calling her doctor.

Because she was not ready. Not ready to hear the word cancer again.

Not now. Not when she had finally started believing she might have found somewhere and someone that felt like home. She called work, claiming she needed a few days to work from home. Mostly, she drifted in and out of sleep on the sofa beside Hwin, surviving on mint tea and dry toast she could barely keep down.

By the weekend, she convinced herself fresh air might help. Running had always helped clear her head before, burning away the panic through sheer physical exertion.

This time it only made everything worse.

The cold air sliced through her lungs while nausea rolled violently through her stomach. Her vision blurred with the trees along the path spinning into a gray-ish smudge.

‘Breathe in. Breathe out. Come on, Rosaline! You've got this. You are not weak.’ The mantra repeated uselessly in her mind while the world tilted dangerously sideways. She barely made it behind a downy birch before losing the contents of her stomach, gripping the rough bark for support. The acid taste lingered bitterly in her mouth as heavy, deliberate footsteps approached nearby.

Then a familiar, drawling voice cut through the silence. "Heavens above, girl," Cathy said, in her face a mix of amusement and immediate concern. "Did milking an oat finally go sour or are you just trying to dig a hole with your bare face?"

Rosaline tried to answer, to snap back with something biting, but immediately regretted it as another wave of nausea overtook her, forcing her back down.

Without hesitation, Cathy stood beside her rubbing slow, firm circles against her back while holding her hair away from her face with a practiced, steady hand.

"There," Cathy murmured afterward, her tone surprisingly gentle as she handed her a bottle of water from her jacket pocket. "Take a rinse. That'll help get rid of the taste. Don't swallow it just yet."

Rosaline rinsed her mouth shakily, wiping her chin with the back of her trembling hand. "I'm fine. I just... I ran too fast in the cold."

"I'm taking you home," Cathy continued firmly, ingnoring the obvious lie and taking Rosaline by the elbow. "And don't even try arguing with me, Rosaline. You look like death warmed over, and frankly, I don't fancy explaining to Jacob why I left his girl face-down in the mud."

Rosaline leaned heavily against the birch tree, her breath still ragged and shallow. "I don't need a lecture, Cathy. I just need to catch my breath. Go away."

Cathy snorted, opening the passenger door of her car with a definitive click. "Good, because I'm not giving one. I'm giving you a ride. Now move your stubborn self into the seat before you pass out in the dirt and make me carry you, because my back isn't up for hauling dead weight today." Seeing no alternative, Rosaline sank into the worn leather seat, the warmth of the car hitting her like a wave.

The walk to Cathy's car drained what little strength Rosaline had left, and the drive passed in a blur of gray coastal roads. By the time they reached the house, Rosaline could barely keep her eyes open, her head lolling against the window. And it was Cathy's steady hand against her back that got her up the front steps and through the door. Hwin immediately circled around her ankles as she stepped inside, miaowing plaintively, and for one aching moment Rosaline wondered if the cat had greeted her mom the same way every time she came home.

She collapsed onto the bed, fully dressed, while Cathy moved noisily through the kitchen down the corridor.

Cupboards opening.

The blender running.

Muttered swearing.

Eventually Cathy appeared in the bedroom doorway, holding a glass filled with something aggressively green and thick.

"Don't smell it, don't look at it, don't think about it," she warned, thrusting it into Rosaline's hand. "Just get it down."

Rosaline obeyed, too tired to protest or question the ingredients. Oddly enough, the sharp, cold liquid settled coolly in her stomach, easing the violent tremors, and she realized with a jolt of exhaustion that she could not remember the last proper thing she had eaten.

The next time Rosaline woke, rain hammered softly against the windows, darkening the room. For a moment she remained still beneath the heavy blankets, disoriented by the shifting shadows.

Then she heard voices.

Cathy.

… And Jacob.

Low, tense murmurs drifted from the living room, though she could not make out the specific words through the heavy wood of the door. Immediately, panic tightened painfully in her chest like a vise.

He should not be here. She didn't want him to see her like this.

She forced herself upright too quickly. Realising her mistake as the room and her stomach spun violently.

By the time she stumbled into the bathroom, she barely managed to reach the toilet before vomiting again, her body racking itself with painful dry heaves while hearing footsteps thundered across the corridor.

Jacob reached her first.

Without a word, he knelt beside her on the cold linoleum and gently gathered her hair away from her face, his touch steady and familiar, while Cathy appeared behind him with a cool, damp cloth, pressing it to the back of her neck.

Rosaline jerked weakly away, pushing at his chest. "Get out. I'm fine. Just leave me alone."

"You've said that every single day for a week, Ross," Jacob said quietly, his eyes dark with a mixture of anger and profound worry as he held her steady anyway. 

"And I stand by it," she gasped, leaning her forehead against the cool porcelain.

"You can barely stand at all."

"I do not need this, Jacob. I don't need you here watching me," her voice cracked, more from sheer, suffocating fear than anger. But he remained entirely calm despite the worry written plainly across his face, his thumb rubbing her shoulder.

"Ross—"

"No!" She wiped her mouth shakily with the cloth Cathy handed her. "I told you the other night. This was a mistake. We are a mistake."

His expression faltered, a flash of genuine hurt cutting through his composure. And because she could not bear seeing him hurt because of her, she lashed out harder, weaponizing her own terror.

"You're a local taxi driver, Jacob. You barely know me"

"I know enough," he said, his voice dropping an octave, steady and unyielding. "I know the woman underneath all this armor."

"You know the easy parts!" she snapped, her chest heaving. "You don't know the rest. You don't know what it looks like when I break. You don't want to see it."

The room suddenly tilted again, the light from the bathroom bulb fracturing into sharp points. Darkness crept aggressively across the edges of her vision.

Jacob's face changed instantly, his anger turning to pure fright. "Rosaline?"

She tried to answer, to tell him to move, but no sound came out. Instead, everything went black.

Jacob caught her before she could hit the hard floor, his heart hammering violently against his ribs as her weight went entirely slack in his arms. "Rosaline! Ross, look at me! Open your eyes, please!" he cried out, his voice thick with absolute panic.

Cathy was already on her phone to the emergency services, her usual swagger entirely gone as she paced the narrow hallway. "We need an ambulance on the coastal road, immediately," she ordered sharply, her voice cutting through the panic. "Conscious collapse, history of severe illness. Hurry." Meanwhile, Jacob cradled Rosaline's limp form against his chest on the bathroom floor, rocking her slightly and whispering desperate, quiet reassurances into her hair, his hand shaking against her cheek.

When consciousness returned, it came in fragments.

Cold hands pressing against her skin.

Bright, blinding fluorescent lights passing overhead.

Someone in a uniform asking questions she couldn't process.

Cathy arguing loudly at the nurses' station.

Jacob calling her name somewhere nearby, his voice fading in and out of the hospital din.

Then darkness again.

Rosaline woke properly sometime later in a quiet hospital room. There was an IV line taped to the back of her hand, clear fluid dripping steadily into her vein. A doctor stood nearby, looking over a digital tablet, the rhythmic hum of medical monitors filling the space.

"Ah, you're back with us," he said, turning toward her. "How long has the vomiting and nausea been going on, Ms. Ward?"

"A week... maybe more," Rosaline answered weakly, her throat dry and raspy. "I lost track of the days."

"Any previous medical conditions we should be aware of before we proceed?"

She hesitated, the old terror tightening its grip on her throat, but she forced herself to say it aloud. "Cancer” a pause “Twice. I had chemotherapy."

The doctor's entire demeanor sharpened immediately, the casual tone vanishing. "Right. Let's get some immediate bloods done, and I'll order an urgent scan. We need to see what's happening under the hood straight away."

Additional tests were ordered at once.

Bloodwork.

Scans.

More bloodwork.

Rosaline lay silently afterward, staring at the perforated tiles of the ceiling while panic consumed her from the inside out. The heavy smell of antiseptic made her stomach churn.

Hospitals always smelled the same.

Fear.

Disinfectant.

Memory.

Eventually, a nurse appeared in the waiting room outside, where Jacob was pacing a track into the linoleum.

"She's awake now," the nurse told Jacob gently, placing a hand on his arm. "And she's asking for you."

By the time he entered the room, both of them looked entirely exhausted, bags under their eyes, the strain of the last few days weighing heavily on them.

Rosaline spoke first, her voice barely a whisper against the white sheets. "I'm sorry. For what I said. For running out."

Jacob blinked, a long, ragged sigh escaping him as he pulled a plastic chair close to her hospital bed. "So am I. I shouldn't have pushed you so hard when you were clearly suffering."

For one brief moment, they almost laughed at the predictability of their own stubbornness.

Almost.

Then Rosaline looked down at her hands, the plastic IV cannula digging painfully into her skin when she moved. "I think the cancer is back. It feels just like it did before. The exhaustion. The sickness."

Jacob went very still, his face freezing into a mask.

She took a deep breath and kept speaking, because if she stopped now, she knew she would never have the courage to say it again. "The first time I got sick... everyone's life became about me. Becca lived in a hospital chair. My mother stopped sleeping. My dad had to work overtime to paid for the treatments. I ruined them. I became this... this black hole that swallowed everyone's happiness."

Jacob quietly sat beside her bed, his eyes locked on hers.

"And the second time, the man I was with... whom I stupidly trusted because I thought he might loved me... looked at me like I was already a corpse. Like I was a liability he hadn't signed up for. He left before the first round of chemo even started."

Something inside Jacob's expression broke slightly at that, a flash of deep, protective anger moving through his eyes.

"So when I got sick again this time..." she whispered, a tear finally slipping down her cheek, "I thought it would be easier to push you away now rather than later. Cut the ties before you had to watch me decay."

"You thought I'd leave you," he said, his voice flat, heavy with the weight of her words.

Silence.

Rosaline could not answer, because that was the exact truth. She couldn't look him in the eye.

Jacob rubbed tiredly at his face with both hands, exhaling slowly before looking at her again, his eyes fiercely intense. "You really don't think you're worth staying for, do you? You think the moment things get hard, people should just pack their bags and run."

That did it.

It opened the floodgates. Tears filled her eyes instantly, hot and fast, spilling over her cheeks because someone had finally understood the core of her isolation. Not the illness itself. Not the physical pain.

Her.

A soft knock on the door interrupted them before he could say more. The doctor returned, holding a clip folder with several test results, while Jacob quietly but firmly took her free hand, locking his fingers with hers.

"The biopsy results from your regular check-up came through, and we've run the acute panels," the doctor said gently, a reassuring expression on his face. "The biopsy was entirely correct, Ms. Ward. There’s no sign of recurrence. The cancer is not back."

For one dizzy second, Rosaline could not breathe, the air catching in her chest. Relief hit her so hard it felt like a physical blow, making her shoulders drop.

Then the doctor smiled slightly, a look that was warm but cautious. "However... the blood tests reveal a very clear reason for your symptoms. You are approximately five to six weeks pregnant."

Silence filled the room, thick and absolute.

Rosaline stared blankly at him, her mind refusing to process the words. Beside her, Jacob blinked several times, his grip on her hand loosening slightly in sheer shock.

"You're... you're certain?" Rosaline whispered, her voice dropping into a register of complete disbelief. "There's no mistake with the names?"

"We repeated the bloodwork twice to be absolutely sure given your history," the doctor assured her, leaning against the end of the bed. "Your hormone levels are extremely elevated, which is likely contributing to the severity of your morning sickness. It's rare, but it happens."

The doctor continued speaking—something about hyperemesis gravidarum, obstetric specialists, nutritional monitoring, and immediate OB-GYN appointments—but the words barely registered, turning into static in Rosaline's ears.

Pregnant.

Rosaline felt completely untethered from reality, as if she were floating above the hospital bed. "That’s impossible," she said faintly, shaking her head against the pillow. "I’m nearly fifty years old. I had heavy chemotherapy. My ovaries shouldn't even be functioning."

"It’s highly unlikely, yes," the doctor admitted gently, closing the folder. "But biology loves to surprise us. It’s not impossible. I'll leave you two to process this for a few minutes."

Then he left them alone again, the door clicking shut behind him.

Neither Rosaline nor Jacob spoke for several long moments, the silence stretching out between them like an ocean. Finally, Jacob looked at her carefully, his eyes wide, almost afraid to say the words aloud as if he might break the spell.

"We’re... we're having a baby? A real baby?"

Rosaline looked from the closed door back to Jacob, her lips parting but no sound coming out for a long time. Jacob slowly lowered himself onto the very edge of the mattress, his fingers tightening around hers again, his hand warm against her cold skin.

"A baby," he repeated, a fragile, awe-struck smile breaking through his exhaustion, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ross... we're going to be parents. You and me."

"I don't know how to do this, Jacob," she whispered, her voice cracking under the sheer weight of the impossibility, the tears starting again for a completely different reason. "I only know how to survive. I know how to fight things that are trying to kill me. I don't know how to create life. I don't know how to be a mother."

"We'll learn together," he answered softly, leaning forward to press his forehead gently against hers. "Step by step. I'm not going anywhere. I told you that."

And suddenly Rosaline began crying. Not delicate tears. Not graceful ones. Terrified, overwhelmed sobs that shook her entire frame. Because for the first time in years, the future existed again, mapping out a path she hadn't planned for.

And somehow, that frightened her far more than grief ever had.

December 14th

The following days filled quickly with appointments, a blur of reception desks and medical questionnaires. Her London OB-GYN referred her to a specialist on the Isle, Dr. Lydia Warren, a woman in her late fifties with silver hair tied back in a neat bun and the sort of calm, authoritative voice that immediately inspired trust.

She confirmed the pregnancy with an internal ultrasound. Usually, the first proper scan happened closer to twelve weeks, she told them, but given Rosaline’s medical history and severe sickness, she wanted to monitor everything from the very beginning.

For the first time since the hospital, it felt real.

Not abstract.

Not theoretical.

Real.

A tiny flicker of motion on a dark, grainy screen. Six millimeters long. No larger than a pea. Yet somehow capable of turning her entire world upside down.

"There," Dr. Lydia said gently, pointing a pen at the small pulsing dot on the monitor. "Right there. That’s the heartbeat. It's strong"

Rosaline stared silently, her breath catching in her throat. Beside her, Jacob looked equally stunned, his mouth slightly open as he leaned closer to the screen.

"We can discuss your options if you’d like," Dr. Lydia continued carefully, turning her chair slightly toward them. "Given the complexities and your age, there’s still time to make a decision."

Rosaline surprised herself by answering immediately, the word leaving her lips before she could even think about it. "No."

Jacob turned toward her slightly, his eyes searching her face.

No hesitation.

No uncertainty.

Fear, certainly. Enough to drown in. But not doubt.

Dr. Lydia nodded kindly, a soft expression in her eyes, as though she understood far more than Rosaline had actually said aloud about what this meant after so much loss.

They left carrying appointment cards, blood test forms, dietary recommendations, and a terrifyingly long list of things to avoid. The medication helped somewhat, though nausea still ruled most of her days, a constant green shadow at the edge of her mind.

At least now there was a reason for it. A terrifying, impossible, miraculous reason.

She visited Cathy the following afternoon, the wind howling around the porch as she knocked. The Texan woman handed her a tall glass filled with something aggressively green before Rosaline could even sit down on the sofa.

"Drink that up," Cathy announced proudly, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "It’s ginger berry with mint and oat milk. It’ll help settle that morning sickness before it gets a hold of you."

"It’s not only in the morning, but thanks," Rosaline muttered, though she accepted it gratefully, taking a cautious sip.

Talking with Cathy again had become unexpectedly easy, the old friction smoothing out into a strange kind of comfort. Sometimes they spoke about Mary. Sometimes they carefully avoided her altogether, letting her ghost sit quietly in the corner.

But little by little, Cathy filled gaps Rosaline had never realized existed in her mother's life. Stories about her mother laughing too loudly after two glasses of cheap white wine. About singing badly to the radio in the kitchen when she thought no one was listening. About crying during old romantic films she pretended to find ridiculous.

"Oh, we were having such a good day that afternoon," Cathy recalled once, her eyes smiling into the distance as she looked out the window. "We'd been down by the harbor, just watching the boats. Then Pete showed up for dinner unannounced and killed the mood entirely."

Rosaline snorted softly, the image vivid in her mind, before her expression dimmed.

"I'm sorry," Cathy said immediately, noticing the shift. "I shouldn't have brought him up."

"No, it’s alright." Rosaline shrugged faintly, wrapping her hands around the cold glass. "It was her life after all, wasn't it?"

"He’s not a bad man, really," Cathy admitted carefully, sitting down opposite her. "Just the sort of man who thinks he’s far more impressive and necessary than he actually is. Mary needed someone she could manage, I think."

"That sounds about right for Mum."

Cathy studied her for a long moment, her sharp eyes taking in the pale skin and the way Rosaline held herself. "You took down some of the photographs in the hall, didn't you?"

Rosaline nodded. "Yeah. As I said, it was Mum’s choice while she was alive, but... it didn’t feel right seeing his face everywhere now. Especially for Becca when she comes over. It felt like a betrayal of Dad, even now."

"So what’d you do with them?"

"Put all his things in boxes, taped them up securely, and Ubered them directly to him" Rosaline said, a small, wicked smirk appearing on her face.

Cathy barked out a loud, raspy laugh that shook her shoulders. "Good for you, girl! That's exactly how your mother would've handled it if she'd had the nerve."

A comfortable silence settled between them, the ticking of the kitchen clock filling the gap, until Rosaline spoke quietly, her voice dropping. "He's the one who told us about what you do, you know. The doula work. He said Mum was different when you were around."

"She was freer with me," Cathy said softly, her eyes turning serious. "Men like Pete... your dad, too, from what Mary said... they like to be in control of the room. They like to dictate the weather."

"I know the type," Rosaline said grimly. "I've spent my whole life avoiding them."

Cathy’s eyes softened slightly, a knowing look passing over her face. "Jacob’s different, though. You know that, don't you?"

Rosaline looked down at her green smoothie, swirling the liquid around the glass. "Jacob's... complicated."

"He respects you, Rosaline. He doesn't want to own you," Cathy said firmly. "And that's what scares you the most, isn't it? Someone who just wants you as you are."

And somehow, that statement hit far too close to the truth.

She still had not worked up the courage to tell Becca. Every time she unlocked her phone and pulled up their chat, the words tangled in her throat like wool.

Pregnant.

At nearly fifty.

After two bouts of cancer.

The entire thing sounded utterly absurd even inside her own head, like a bad storyline from a soap opera. So instead, she avoided it, sending mundane texts about the weather and work.

Which became considerably harder once Molly unexpectedly arrived at her doorstep one freezing Tuesday morning, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

It was still early, the sun barely clearing the horizon, when Jacob heard the heavy, rhythmic knock on the front door. Hwin immediately started miaowing loudly while leaping down from the armchair beside the bedroom window as though personally offended by the interruption to her morning routine.

Jacob froze for a second under the duvet, looking at the sleeping form of Rosaline beside him.

It felt entirely wrong opening the door of Rosaline’s house half-dressed at dawn, especially on this island where gossip traveled like wildfire, but at the same time, he did not want the persistent knocking to wake her. She had finally managed a few precious hours of deep sleep after being violently sick most of the night, her body exhausted from the retching.

Then came a second knock. Sharper. More desperate this time.

With a quiet curse under his breath, Jacob dragged on his trousers and a heavy knit sweater from the floor before heading down the corridor, his bare feet loud on the wooden floor.

When he opened the door, a blonde teenage girl stood outside, her nose red from the cold, looking thoroughly irritated and deeply confused as she gripping her bag.

Molly.

He recognized her instantly from Mary’s funeral, though she looked younger now without the formal black coat. For a long second, they simply stared at one another in the morning fog.

"Oh," Molly said, blinking up at him as she took in his messy hair and bare feet. "Right. You’re... the taxi guy. From the funeral."

Jacob laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "And you’re Molly. Becca's youngest."

"Guilty as charged," she said, her voice defensive.

Without waiting for an explicit invitation, Molly stepped right past him into the warm hallway, patting Hwin absently over the head as the cat rubbed against her shins, while her eyes scanned the corridor for her aunt. If she found it strange discovering a local taxi driver wandering around the house half-dressed at this hour, she said absolutely nothing, keeping her thoughts behind a teenage scowl.

"Who is it?" Rosaline’s sleepy, raspy voice echoed down from the room.

Molly immediately shoved past Jacob and launched herself at her aunt's chest.

"Molly? bloody hell—" Rosaline gasped, bracing herself against the door frame.

"You look absolutely awful, Auntie Ross," Molly announced bluntly, pulling back to look at her.

"Lovely to see you too, Moll-Polly. Thanks for the critique."

"Mum doesn’t know I’m here, by the way," Molly added casually, dropping her bag on the floor.

Rosaline blinked, the sleep completely vanishing from her eyes. "...What do you mean she doesn't know? Molly, what have you done?"

Jacob looked between the two of them once, taking in the rising tension, before wisely deciding this was a family matter. "I'm gonna walk down to the café and get some breakfast rolls," he said carefully, reaching for his boots. "Give you both some privacy to sort this out."

Rosaline shot him a deeply grateful look as he slipped out the door, before guiding Molly firmly toward the kitchen table. Once alone with a hot mug, the story spilled out in a chaotic torrent of teenage outrage.

Apparently, Molly had been caught vaping behind the bike sheds with her boyfriend, Noah. Becca, utterly horrified and operating at peak overprotective mother mode since Mary's death, had gone completely nuclear, forbidding her from seeing him again, confiscating her tablet, and declaring him a "terrible, toxic influence" who would ruin her life.

So Molly had broken open her ceramic piggy bank, taken her savings from her weekend job, boarded the midnight ferry from Liverpool, and fled to the Isle without telling a single soul.

"She checked my room at ten PM like I’m a category-A prisoner," Molly grumbled, aggressively stirring sugar into her tea while Rosaline leaned against the counter. "And she keeps calling Noah manipulative just because he has a nose ring and doesn't like school."

"Well, he’s still underage and he owns three unregistered motorbikes, Mol," Rosaline replied carefully, trying to find a balance between aunt and responsible adult. "Your mother's bound to have a few questions about his safety record."

"That’s not illegal, having motorbikes."

"It feels illegal when you're fifteen," Rosaline noted dryly.

Molly rolled her eyes dramatically, throwing herself back into the chair.

The phone call with Becca afterward was loud enough that even Jacob, halfway down the coastal road with a bag of pastries, probably heard parts of it through sheer force of emotion vibrating through the speaker.

"She’s fifteen, Ros! She has no money, no sense, and she's on an island in the middle of the sea!" Becca shrieked from the Manchester kitchen.

"She’d be sixteen in three months, Becca. And it’s normal teenage rebellion. We did worse."

"That’s not helping me right now, Rosaline! I've been beside myself since six AM!"

"She’s just upset because you put her on lockdown."

"I should be upset! My daughter ran away across the bloody Irish Sea in the dead of night without a coat! I thought she was dead in a ditch!" Becca's voice cracked with genuine, exhausted terror.

Eventually, after much intense negotiation—and Molly dramatically shouting from the living room that she would jump off the pier before returning home immediately—Becca reluctantly agreed to let her stay on the Isle until the Christmas holidays, provided Rosaline kept her under strict supervision and made her do her schoolwork remotely.

After hanging up the phone, Rosaline leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, rubbing her temples. "You know your mother’s going to find a way to blame me for this and probably kill me in my sleep."

"She says that every time you give us money behind her back anyway," Molly noted cheerfully, reaching for a pastry Jacob had just brought in.

"That’s a fair point," Rosaline admitted.

For the first time that morning, Molly smiled properly, the sharp edges of her anger softening. And Rosaline realized, with a painful, tugging sort of clarity in her chest, how much she had missed simply having her family around her, even the chaotic parts.

But having a sharp-eyed teenager in the house meant secrets were difficult to keep, and Molly unintentionally became a witness to Rosaline’s increasingly obvious pregnancy symptoms over the following days.

One morning, earlier than usual, Molly walked into the bathroom and found her aunt kneeling before the toilet, her face white and sweating as she gripped the seat.

"Are you okay, Auntie Ross? Do you need me to call the doctor?"

Rosaline merely groaned in response, waving a hand weakly to dismiss her. "Just... give me a minute."

Thankfuly, Jacob arrived moments later, taking over the aftermath with a quiet efficiency that showed he'd done this every morning for a week, leaving Molly watching from the doorway with a furrowed brow.

Breakfast at the local café that morning consisted mostly of Molly and Jacob debating the finer points of Star Wars lore over fried eggs, while Rosaline stared miserably at her single piece of dry, unbuttered toast and wondered whether Cathy would ever surrender that secret smoothie recipe.

On the drive home, the car heater proved too much, and dizziness struck so suddenly that Jacob had to pull the car over onto the grass verge before Rosaline even spoke, just in time for her to fling the door open, avoiding a disaster in his clean car.

Molly silently handed her a cold water bottle from the back seat afterward, her expression serious. No jokes about lightweight drinkers. No teenage teasing. Just quiet, watchful concern.

And Rosaline realized she could not hide this forever from the girl.

That afternoon, while they lay on the living room rug reading quietly beside the fire, Hwin stretched out between them, Rosaline finally broke the silence.

"Mol?"

"Hm? What's up?" Molly asked, not looking up from her book.

"I need to tell you something. And you have to promise not to scream or text your mother immediately."

Molly immediately looked up, her posture tightening as she dropped the book onto her lap. "You’re sick again, aren’t you? The cancer's back and you're not telling anyone." The raw, naked fear in her teenage voice nearly shattered Rosaline's composure. God, she hated what her medical history had done to these kids, the permanent anxiety she'd instilled in them.

"No, darling, no," she said quickly, moving closer and reaching for Molly's hand, squeezing it tight. "It's not cancer. I promise you. The tests are completely clear."

Molly visibly sagged, a massive sigh of relief escaping her. "Then what is it? Why are you throwing up every five minutes?"

Rosaline inhaled shakily, looking at the fire. "I’m pregnant, Molly."

Silence. Utter, heavy silence filled the small room.

Then Molly’s eyes widened so dramatically, her jaw dropping, that Rosaline nearly laughed at the absurdity of the expression.

"You’re WHAT? Are you serious?"

"I know. It's ridiculous."

"But... at your age? Aren't you like... ancient?"

"Thank you so much for that, appreciate the sensitivity," Rosaline dryly aligned her thoughts.

Molly stared at her for another long second, processing the information, before abruptly throwing both arms around her aunt's neck, nearly knocking her over onto Hwin.

"Well," Molly declared fiercely, burying her face in Rosaline's shoulder, "this kid’s getting the coolest cousin in the entire world, and I'm going to teach them how to sneak out."

And for the very first time since leaving that hospital room, Rosaline laughed without a single thread of fear or hesitation attached to the sound.

December 25th

After telling Molly, Rosaline quickly realized she had gained another highly dedicated, incredibly bossy person determined to keep an eye on her around the clock. Apparently, Jacob and Cathy's constant hovering was not enough for her recovery.

She had another check-up appointment with Dr. Lydia, and thankfully, the anti-nausea medication was finally beginning to take effect, dulling the worst of the waves. She still could not stand the smell of most cooked foods—Jacob had nearly caused another domestic disaster just by brewing a fresh pot of coffee two mornings earlier, forcing her to run to the window—but at least she no longer spent entire days bent over the bathroom porcelain.

She and Molly started running together every morning along the coastal path, the wind freezing their cheeks. It was an unusual hobby for a teenager during the Christmas holidays, but Rosaline knew perfectly well Molly’s sudden enthusiasm for 6 AM exercise had less to do with cardiovascular fitness and more to do with her lingering worry, likely coordinated with Jacob behind her back.

Not that Molly would ever admit to being protective of her aunt.

And honestly, Rosaline did not mind the company. She had always loved her nieces fiercely from a distance, and now a quiet wave of regret hit her in the quiet hours for all the years she had spent too far away in London, too consumed by corporate emails and work schedules and mere survival to notice how quickly they were turning into real people.

After their runs, they usually found Cathy down by the stony beach, working on the hull of her boat with a thermos and an aggressively green smoothie already waiting on the wooden bench.

"Honestly, Cathy," Rosaline muttered one morning, her teeth chattering as she accepted the cold cup. "I’m beginning to think you actually enjoy seeing me suffer through these experiments."

"That’s just the ginger talking, girl. Drink up and stop whining," Cathy said without looking up from her scraping.

"It tastes exactly like lawn clippings and dirt."

"And yet you keep drinking every drop I give you, don't you?" Cathy noted with an unbearably smug grin.

That was true; Cathy’s disgusting concoctions were about the only thing her stomach didn't immediately reject. Which made the Texan woman completely insufferable about her holistic remedies.

But today, Rosaline was a complete nervous wreck. Christmas approached far too quickly, and no amount of magical smoothies would help with the impending storm.

Becca, Jim, and Lauren were arriving on the morning ferry for Christmas. Along with her dad, Richard. He and Jim would stay at a nearby B&B down the road and return to Manchester on Boxing Day, unable to face a long stay.

It had taken an extraordinary amount of convincing and emotional blackmail to get Richard back to the Isle of Man, the place where his late wife had lived a secret double life for years—and where his daughters had chosen to bury her despite his loud, bitter objections. Rosaline understood his lingering bitterness, even when his sharp comments hurt her.

What she had not expected was how anxious she herself would become over hosting Christmas lunch. It was the first time in her adult life that Rosaline was responsible for the family meal. Normally, she simply appeared on Christmas Eve with her laptop in her bag, spending more time answering emails in the corner than actually participating in the family traditions Mary used to organize.

But this year, the responsibility rested entirely on her shoulders, and for some stupid reason, she felt it needed to be perfect to make up for everything else. Which was ridiculous. And completely impossible given her ongoing war with most foods.

Molly had helped decorate the cottage beautifully with holly and fairy lights, but cooking a full feast was entirely out of the question. Rosaline had already thrown up twice that morning before the sun was even up. So, she surrendered her pride gracefully and arranged a luxury catered lunch from one of the best restaurants in town, delivered in foil containers.

Molly called it a stroke of modern genius.

Rosaline called it basic survival. How the mighty corporate machine has changed, she thought to herself as she plated the pre-cooked meat.

"You didn’t use Mum’s turkey recipe that I spent an hour typing out and sending you, did you?" Becca asked later that afternoon, her voice already tight with a familiar, holiday-induced tension as they stood in the kitchen.

It was only the girls left inside the house now. Jim and Richard had gone back to the B&B to rest, Richard leaving almost immediately after the last plate was cleared, having barely spoken three words throughout the entire meal.

"I thought we explicitly agreed on the phone that it was important this year," Becca continued, her face flushed as she stacked plates in the sink with a bit too much force. "A way to keep her memory alive for the girls since it's our first Christmas without her."

"It’s okay, Mum, really," Lauren interrupted gently from the doorway. She was always the pacifist of the family, trying to smooth over the cracks. And from the knowing, gentle look she had been giving Rosaline all day, Rosaline deduced that Molly had already leaked the secret to her sister. "We don’t need a giant, overcooked bird to remember Grandma. The food was lovely."

"And the pigs in blankets were absolutely brilliant, Auntie Ross," Molly added loyally, glaring at her mother from the table.

Becca ignored them both, focusing entirely on her sister. "I offered to come over on the early ferry last night to help you prepare, Ross. I told you I could handle the roast."

"It was handled. Everyone's fed," Rosaline replied carefully, keeping her voice low and even.

"Clearly it wasn't handled if you had to outsource Christmas dinner to a hotel kitchen," Becca said, the comment landing harder and with more venom than she probably intended in her stress.

Rosaline stiffened slightly, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter. She understood where her sister’s raw feelings came from. Truly she did. Mary had always made Christmas look magical and effortless, despite the underlying lies. But under her current circumstances—pregnant, completely exhausted, and constantly fighting the urge to gag—cooking a full turkey dinner from scratch had felt like a mountain she couldn't climb.

She truly did not want to fight on Christmas Day, but her sister’s unresolved grief and years of sisterly tension made a dangerous combination in the small room.

Soon enough, old, toxic habits surfaced. Defenses rose. Voices sharpened into weapons.

"Well, I'm deeply sorry that Mum died before teaching me how to professionally roast poultry to your exacting standards, Becca!" Rosaline snapped, the sarcasm slipping out before she could stop her tongue.

Immediate, awful silence fell over the kitchen.

Both girls looked at them from the doorway, their expressions falling. Becca’s face shifted instantly from sharp irritation to a look of profound, deep hurt.

"Ross... that's not fair. That's not what I meant at all."

"No, it’s fine." Rosaline stood abruptly, grabbing her coat from the peg by the door with shaking hands. "Clearly, I’ve ruined your perfect, traditional Christmas. I'm going for a walk."

"That’s not what I was saying, Rosaline! Come back here!" Becca called out, but Rosaline was already out the door into the cold afternoon air before she said something crueler, or worse, started crying in front of her nieces.

"You lashed out at Auntie Ross for absolutely no reason, Mum," Molly told her mother quietly into the silence of the kitchen, her voice heavy with disapproval.

Becca looked down guiltily at the untouched glass of white wine in her hands, her throat tight. Because the worst part of it was, she knew Molly was entirely right.

She had not meant to attack her sister over a turkey. But the grief of missing her mother, the stress of the holidays, and dad’s cold, judgmental silence at the table had been sitting under her skin like a fever all day. And Rosaline always made everything look so easy, so detached. Even if she had looked incredibly pale all day. Too pale, now that Becca really thought about it.

Becca knew her sister well enough to recognize the signs of her hiding something behind a wall of sarcasm.

So she reached for her phone on the counter, intending to call her immediately and apologize, but Lauren gently stepped forward and placed a hand over the screen.

"Maybe let her cool off for a little while first, Mum," she said softly, her voice wise beyond her years. "She’s probably gone down to see Jacob anyway. She's safe."

That was how Becca found herself knocking quietly outside Jacob’s small fisherman cottage early on Boxing Day morning, the sea mist heavy in the air. She was carrying two paper cups from the local garage—black coffee for herself and a hot peppermint tea.

"Molly said tea might be safer for her than coffee right now," Becca explained awkwardly, her voice small when a worried, but entirely unsurprised, looking Jacob opened the door.

"She’s by the fire," he murmured quietly, stepping aside to let her into the warm, small room. "Go on through."

Inside, Rosaline sat curled beneath a thick wool blanket near the hearth, her knees pulled up to her chest. She looked even paler than the day before in the morning light, her face thin and fragile. And suddenly, Becca felt a horrible, suffocating wave of sisterly guilt wash over her.

"I brought you some tea. Peppermint." She offered softly, stepping into the room and holding out the cup.

Rosaline accepted it without speaking, the paper cup warm between her palms.

The silence between them stretched out painfully at first, the sound of the crackling logs filling the space.

"I’m sorry about yesterday, Ross. I was an absolute cow about the dinner. It was just... missing Mum, and Dad being so difficult..."

Rosaline stared down into the plastic lid of the cup. "I’m sorry too. I shouldn't have snapped about Mum. It wasn't fair to you."

Another silence descended, softer this time, until Rosaline cleared her throat, her knuckles tightening around the paper. "There's... there's something I haven't told you yet, Becca. Something big."

Becca immediately straightened up, her maternal instincts putting her on alert as she sat on the edge of the chair. "What is it? Ross, you're not sick again, are you? Please tell me you're not sick."

And slowly, haltingly, with Jacob standing quietly by the stairs for support, Rosaline told her everything. The sudden collapse. The hospital visit. The blood tests. The specialist. The pregnancy.

Becca stared at her in complete, stunned silence, her mouth slightly open. It wasn't disappointment or judgment in her eyes, but a massive wave of shock mixed with immediate, protective fear. Throughout their entire lives, through all Rosaline's success and independent lifestyle, Becca had never once imagined her fiercely career-driven sister wanting or having a child.

"Are you... are you going to be okay, Ross?" Becca whispered eventually, reaching out a hand. "Physically, I mean? With your history?"

Rosaline looked down at her hands and laughed weakly, a sound that was half-sob. "Apparently the doctors think so. They're monitoring me every two weeks."

"But... Ross... a baby... at our age..."

"I know. It's terrifying," Rosaline said, the armor completely falling away now as she looked at her sister. She told Becca about all the high-risk factors the specialist had listed, about her deep-seated terror of her body failing her again, and underneath all of that heavy fear, she admitted to something even more frightening.

Hope. A tiny, fragile, impossible hope she barely trusted herself to touch.

Becca’s eyes filled suddenly with hot tears, and without another word, she crossed the small space between them, throwing her arms around her sister and holding her tight against her chest.

"We’ll get through this together, Ross. It will be absolutely fine, I promise you," Becca whispered fiercely into her hair, her grip unyielding. "I’m here, Ross. We're all here for you this time. You don't have to do it by yourself."

And for the first time in a very long while, Rosaline actually believed her. Because despite all their petty arguments and differences, Becca understood the weight of family immediately. She always had.

December 31st

The house had never felt this full before in all the weeks she'd lived here. Not just full of people, but full of actual life. With warmth. With noise.

Lauren and Molly had completely taken over the sitting room floor with an array of blankets, pillows, bags of crisps, and enough empty chocolate wrappers to concern several health authorities. Hwin wandered slowly between them like a minor royal inspecting her loyal subjects, occasionally sniffing at a crisp before finding a warm spot by the hearth, while some loud, dreadful New Year’s television special played on low in the background.

From the kitchen came the loud, familiar sound of Becca arguing with Jacob about the preparation of the roast potatoes.

"You cannot seriously be putting that much rosemary on everything. It's overpowering," Becca's voice carried over the counter.

"It’s festive. People like herbs at New Year," Jacob defended himself good-naturedly.

"It’s lazy cooking, is what it is. Pass me the salt."

Rosaline sat at the table, nursing a warm mug of peppermint tea while watching them bicker through the doorway, a soft feeling in her chest. The specialist's medication had helped enough that she was no longer spending her entire morning bent over the toilet bowl, though the early hours remained brutal and exhausting. Some smells still turned her stomach instantly—seafood was now entirely forbidden in the house unless Jacob wished to relive the experience of death itself.

Jacob noticed the moment her expression shifted from amusement to fatigue, stepping away from Becca's potato lecture.

"You alright there, Ross? Do you need to lie down before the countdown?"

Rosaline rolled her eyes lightly, though there was no heat in it. "I’m pregnant, not dying. Stop looking at me like I'm made of glass."

Becca snorted loudly from the sink, not looking up. "Careful, Jacob. She’s officially entered the insufferable, independent stage of the pregnancy."

"I heard that" an amused Rosaline called out.

"You were supposed to, dear."

Still, Becca’s expression softened completely as she walked past to put the tray in the oven. Things between the sisters had eased considerably since that emotional conversation on Boxing Day. That morning, after the initial shock had worn off, Becca had cried harder than Rosaline ever expected, letting out all the built-up tension of the past year. Terror that her sister had been ill again. Terror that she might lose the only sibling she had left.

Now, watching Rosaline curled beneath one of Jacob’s oversized knit jumpers, with slightly more color in her cheeks and eyes that no longer looked haunted by the specter of oncology wards, Becca finally allowed herself to take a proper breath.

"You still haven’t told Dad properly about this, have you?" Becca asked carefully, leaning against the table as Jacob went back to his chopping.

Rosaline groaned into the steam of her tea, her shoulders slumping. "Can we please not do this tonight? It's New Year's Eve."

"You have to tell him eventually, Ross. He's going to notice when you start showing in a few months."

"I know, I know. I will."

Richard had been incredibly difficult to manage after Mary’s death. The revelation of the long-term affair had shattered something fundamental inside his rigid worldview. And now this news. A daughter with a late-in-life pregnancy after two long battles with cancer. He would either panic about her health, become suffocatingly overprotective, or react with cold disapproval.

Most likely a combination of all three.

"I’ll call him and tell him after New Year’s Day, when things quiet down," Rosaline muttered weakly, tracing the rim of her mug.

Jacob looked entirely unconvinced from the cutting board. "You said that exact same sentence before Christmas."

"And I meant it when I said it then too," she countered sharply.

Lauren suddenly looked up from her nest of blankets on the sofa, her face lighting up. "Wait a minute. Does this mean Molly and I get to babysit when the baby comes?"

"Absolutely not" Becca answered immediately from the oven.

"Yes, definitely, I'm already planning the outfits," Molly argued at the exact same time, throwing a pillow at her sister.

Rosaline laughed softly, the sound warm in the small kitchen. God, she had genuinely missed this chaos. Not perfection. Not grand corporate gestures or expensive London dinners. Just this. Noise. Family. People talking over one another while dinner burned slightly in the background.

For years, she had successfully convinced herself she did not need any of it to be happy. Now, she was finally beginning to understand the profound difference between not needing something and simply believing you didn't deserve to have it.

Her hand drifted unconsciously toward her stomach, resting against the flat denim of her jeans. Jacob noticed the movement immediately. Quietly, without interrupting Becca’s ongoing lecture to the girls about tidying up the chocolate wrappers, he moved beside her chair and rested his warm hand lightly against the back of her neck, his fingers brushing her hair.

Small touches. Always small, quiet touches with him. Never demanding an explanation. Just letting her know he was there.

Rosaline leaned unconsciously back into the steady warmth of his hand, letting her head rest against it for a second.

And for one terrifying second, a wave of pure happiness hit her so suddenly she almost could not bear the weight of it. Because happiness meant having something real to lose again. It meant vulnerability. As though sensing the sudden shift in her mood, the slight tightening of her shoulders, Jacob bent down toward her ear.

"You drifted off to that far-away place again, Ross. What's going on?"

She looked up at him, her eyes dark. "Sorry. Just thinking."

"Don’t apologise for thinking. But tell me what it is."

"I wasn’t really thinking, just... feeling, I suppose."

"What then? Talk to me."

Rosaline hesitated, looking at the girls laughing on the floor, before admitting quietly, "I’m just scared, Jacob."

His expression softened instantly, his hand moving to rub her shoulder. "Of what specifically?"

"Everything," she swallowed hard, her voice dropping so the girls wouldn't hear. "The baby. The reality of it."

"That's entirely understandable. I'd be worried if you weren't."

"Of you. Of us."

That made him frown slightly, his brow furrowing. 

"Of my body failing me again when someone needs me to be strong," she whispered, the old trauma rearing its head. "What if I can't finish the job?"

His thumb brushed gently beneath her ear, a steady, grounding pressure. "Ross... look at me."

"I'm serious, Jacob."

"I noticed. I am too."

"What if I don’t know how to do any of this? I've never been a mother."

For a moment, he simply looked down at her, his eyes warm and entirely steady. Then: "Good."

Rosaline blinked, confused by the response. "...Good? How is that good?"

"You know the kind of people who scare me the most?" Jacob said quietly, a small smile touching his lips. "The people who think they’ll automatically be brilliant parents without trying. The ones who think they have all the answers."

Despite herself, a soft laugh escaped her. "I'm trying to have a serious emotional crisis here, Jacob."

"I know you are. And I’m telling you that you worrying about being a good mother means you already care enough to be one. You're already doing it."

A tight emotion rose painfully in her chest, making it hard to swallow. Before she could find the words to answer him, Molly suddenly appeared between them, her phone held high in the air with the camera app open.

"Stay right like that. Smile, both of you!"

Rosaline narrowed her eyes immediately, her corporate defense mechanism kicking in. "Molly, don'tyou dare."

Too late. The white flash went off, illuminating the kitchen for a split second.

"Oh my God," Molly gasped dramatically, staring down at the screen with a wide grin. "Look at this, Lauren. You two are officially, disgustingly in love. It's actually nauseating."

Becca burst out into loud, genuine laughing from the kitchen counter while Jacob shook his head, a red tinge to his cheeks. Rosaline felt an unexpected warmth rise into her own cheeks, her hand remaining over her stomach.

Because for once, the idea of being happy no longer terrified her quite so much.

Later that night, long after the clock had struck midnight and the television had been turned off, the cottage grew quiet. Lauren and Molly had fallen fast asleep in a tangle of blankets on the sitting room floor, and Becca had finally stopped reorganizing the kitchen cupboards "for maximum space efficiency" and gone up to bed.

Outside, a soft winter rain tapped gently against the windowpanes.

Jacob stood outside on the covered back step, looking out over the dark garden toward the sea, a mug of tea steaming in his hand, when Rosaline joined him, wrapped tightly in a thick wool blanket.

"You’ll freeze out here," he murmured immediately, shifting to block the wind for her. "Go back inside by the fire."

"I’m from Manchester, Jacob, not Tatooine," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "I can handle a bit of northern rain."

"Still incredibly dramatic, though, aren't you?"

"Always. It's in the contract."

He smiled faintly in the darkness and opened his left arm for her automatically, pulling up the side of his coat. Rosaline stepped right into his side without a second thought, tucking herself under his shoulder.

Somewhere far off down the coast, a few leftover fireworks were still bursting across the black sky. Early celebrations from the harbor town. Jacob rested his chin lightly against the top of her head, the scent of rain and tobacco on his collar.

"You know," he murmured after a long silence, his voice low against her hair, "this probably isn’t how most people imagine starting a proper relationship. With a hospital stay and a pregnancy announcement within the first two months."

Rosaline snorted softly, pressing her face into his sweater. "What do you mean? You don't find the constant vomiting or my severe emotional repression romantic?"

"It’s a bit of both, really. Keeps me on my toes."

Another small laugh escaped her, the tension finally leaving her frame as a deep silence settled comfortably between them. Not an empty silence. It was never empty or lonely when she was with him.

Finally, Rosaline spoke quietly into the dark expanse of the garden. "I used to think my life had already happened. Before I came back to this island."

Jacob frowned slightly, tightening his grip around her waist. "What do you mean by that?"

"Like... like I’d already had my allocated chance at happiness. Before the first cancer diagnosis. Before my career took over. I thought the rest of my life was just... maintenance. Staying alive. Not actually living."

He tightened his arm around her even further, pulling her flush against him. "And what about now?"

Rosaline looked out toward the dark horizon where the sea met the sky, the distant fireworks fading into the clouds.

Now.

Now, for the first time in twenty years, there was something unknown ahead of her again. Something completely unplanned. Unexpected. Fragile. But beautifully real.

"Now I don't know what's coming," she admitted softly, her hand resting over his where it held her.

And for the very first time in her life, that uncertainty did not feel entirely frightening. It felt like a beginning.

Above them, the last firework burst in a flash of green across the distant sky, signaling the start of the new year.