Chapter 1
Christmas Eve Evening, 2021
I started feeling what people later called baby fever when I was about ten.
I didn’t know that was what it was back then. I didn’t realize it was a thing. All I knew was that whenever there was a baby nearby, something in me pulled tight and warm at the same time. My attention would lock in. My hands would hover. I’d slow down without meaning to, like my body was already adjusting itself around something fragile.
I didn’t want to play with babies the way other kids did. I didn’t want to dress them up or bounce them for fun. I wanted to know what they needed. I wanted to be useful. I wanted them calm. Safe. Settled.
As an only child, I grew up watching my mom’s siblings—three brothers and five sisters—build families one after another. Babies didn’t arrive one at a time. They came in waves. By the time I was old enough to really notice, family gatherings weren’t about adults catching up anymore. They were about who needed a nap, who needed a bottle, who was crying and why.
Cribs appeared in guest rooms. Highchairs replaced extra dining chairs. Bottles lined the counters. Toys lived everywhere—under tables, behind couches, in places you didn’t expect to find them.
That was normal to me.
Those babies shaped me more than school ever did.
Some memories stick harder than others. Not because they were dramatic, but because they settled. Christmas Eve, 2021, is one of those.
Uncle Jay and Aunt Molly hosted that year. Their house felt like it was glowing—every window warm with light while snow pressed quietly against the glass outside. The air smelled like pine needles, sugar cookies, and something savoury that had been cooking all afternoon.
Aunt Molly sat on the couch with her feet propped up, one hand always resting on her stomach. She was very pregnant. So pregnant that it made everyone around her careful without meaning to.
Twins.
Due January 30, 2022.
Everyone said the date out loud, like saying it enough would keep it safe.
I remember kneeling on the floor beside her, not even thinking about it. I watched her belly shift—not just kick, but really move. One baby pushing, the other responding. Like they already knew each other.
“You don’t have to hover,” she said gently, smiling at me.
“I know,” I replied. “I just like being close.”
She squeezed my hand. “You always were.”
Across the room, Aunt Hannah sat in an armchair, her own hand resting on her stomach. Hers wasn’t as big yet, but it is evident if you know what to look for.
She and Uncle Lincoln were expecting twins, too.
Two boys.
Due March 2022.
I remember staring at her for a second too long when I noticed, my brain immediately doing math I hadn’t asked it to do. January babies. March babies. Winter. Cold nights. Tiny hats. Double strollers. Four newborns in the family within weeks of each other.
“Amber?” Hannah said, catching my look and laughing softly. “I’m okay.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “I was just thinking.”
She smiled in a way that said she wasn’t surprised.
Later, when the house quieted and the younger kids started fading, Aunt Molly lowered herself onto the floor beside me near the tree. Her movements were slow now. Careful.
“They’re busy tonight,” she said, rubbing her belly.
I watched again. The movement was stronger now. Clear.
“Do you ever get scared?” I asked, my voice small even to my own ears.
She looked at me for a moment before answering. “All the time.”
“But you still want them,” I said.
Her answer came instantly. “More than anything.”
That certainty hit me hard. It didn’t feel dramatic. It felt… solid.
“I think they know it’s Christmas,” I whispered.
She laughed quietly. “If they do, they’ve got terrible timing.”
When we hugged goodbye later, she held me carefully.
“Next Christmas,” she said, smiling, “you’ll meet them.”
On the drive home, snow falling slow and heavy, I stared out the window and thought about January. And March. About four lives are already lining up to arrive, sensing that everything felt like it was about to change.
I didn’t know yet how much.
But something in me settled that night. Not excitement. Not longing.
Recognition.
By the time the next Christmas Eve came around, that feeling hadn’t faded. If anything, it had sharpened.
“Amber,” Aunt Lily said gently, resting a hand on my shoulder, “remember bedtime for the infants is seven.”
“Yes, Aunt Lily,” I said automatically. “Go enjoy yourselves. I’ve got it.”
She laughed, relieved. No one questioned it anymore.
“What’s the plan?” my mom asked as she slipped on her coat.
I raised an eyebrow. She already knew.
“Well,” I said, counting on my fingers, “groups—movie group. Free play group. Wrapping group.”
She shook her head, smiling. “Of course.”
When the door closed behind the adults, I locked it. The click felt final in a way I liked. Responsibility settled onto me fully, familiar and steady.
The living room glowed with Christmas lights. Sylvia and Gemma sat on the rug. Elias and Felix lounged on the couch. Pine and cinnamon hung faintly in the air.
“What now?” Gemma asked, already excited.
“This is Amber,” Sylvia said. “She always has a plan.”
I smiled, looking at all of them—and my thoughts drifted, just for a second, to the four babies who would be here soon. Two January twins. Two March twins. Diaper sizes. Sleep schedules. Gifts I still needed to get.
Soft blankets.
Teething rings.
Something that squeaked but not loudly.
My brain never stopped doing that.
As the night unfolded—groups moving where they were supposed to, babies sleeping, wrapping paper everywhere—I felt that same certainty again.
Not pride.
Belonging.
And as I leaned against the hallway wall later, listening to the quiet hum of a house full of children, one thought stayed with me longer than the rest:
This wasn’t something I was growing into.
It was something I’d always been.
And somehow, even before the four new babies arrived, I already knew exactly where I fit.
