The first trimester slipped in so quietly it almost felt like an apology.
After the storm of confessions and tears on the porch, after the raw, trembling night when I finally admitted I loved them too much to walk away, the house seemed to exhale.
The snow outside kept falling in thick, patient layers, but inside the lodge everything softened.
The fire burned lower and steadier.
Voices dropped to murmurs.
Hands moved with new care—as if every touch now carried the weight of something growing between us.
Morning sickness arrived in gentle, predictable waves, mostly before dawn.
I would wake with that familiar roll of nausea, eyes still closed, and before I could even sit up, Matthew would already be there.
He started rising an hour earlier than the rest of us—slipping out of the pil
