Page 157 of ICED
“You just wait until he starts crawling,” Murphy tells me. “You think checking into boards is rough? Try not stepping in poop or baby sick at two in the morning.”
“I’ve already had glitter slime on my ceiling,” I say, shrugging. “I’m unshakable.”
Sophie grabs my hand and pulls him to the couch. “Come hold your god-nephew or whatever we’re calling this.”
“Uncle Bear,” Lila announces firmly, staking her claim. “Because I said so.”
Maya stifles a laugh, coming to sit beside me on the arm of the couch. Her smile is soft, her eyes full of something close to awe as I settle into the cushions with Finn in my hands, which look massive now I’m holding this tiny bundle.
Murphy watches it all, then says under his breath, “Okay, he looks terrifying holding him. That baby is like two percent his size.”
“Don’t worry,” Sophie says sweetly. “I’ve got photos for blackmail.”
“Send me all of them,” Maya says, already reaching for her phone.
We stay longer than we meant to. Dylan drops off a bag of shopping from Mia and eats three bagels before anyone notices. Ollie arrives with a balloon shaped like a trout and proudly announces, “It was the last one at the petrol station. Fish are soothing.”
Lila sings a lullaby to Finn that’s mostly about unicorns and banana bread. Sophie nearly cries again. Murphy covers his own emotion with a snort-laugh and wipes at his eyes when no one’s looking.
I don’t remember the last time a room felt this full. Not of noise, though there’s plenty, but ofbelonging. Of warmth. Of something stitched together out of mess and effort and years of showing up for each other.
Of family.
Maya shifts beside me, staring at Finn asleep against my chest. Her arm brushes mine, and I lean into it without thinking.
Yeah.
This is home.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
MAYA
The suitcase is gone.
Not in the back of the wardrobe. Not under the bed. Not zipped up by the door, waiting for the next time I need to run. It’s in the attic, next to a box labelled “Christmas” and a crate of Owen’s old hockey gear that even he admits he’ll never use again.
I don’t think I’ll need it anymore.
The thought is strange and beautiful and terrifying in the same breath. Like stepping out into sunlight after a storm. Like discovering the world is still here, waiting for you, even after all the running.
Lila’s already at school. Owen dropped her off this morning while I finished loading the last box of books onto the shelf in what is now our living room. He came back with two flat whites and a chocolate croissant that he claimed was for Lila but somehow ended up in my hand.
Now, the house is quiet.
Sunlight pools through the living room windows, warm on the floorboards. There are no boxes left. No loose ends. Just framed photos on the walls, a vase of wilting tulips from the market, Lila’s swimming bag hanging on a hook with her name written in glittery pink letters.
I sit cross-legged on the couch, journal open in my lap. Apen tucked behind my ear. The mug Owen brought me rests on the windowsill, half-finished. Still warm.
And I write.
Not because I need to vent. Not because I’m spiralling. But because there’s space in my head now. Quiet where the panic used to live. And into that quiet, I write:
Today, I unpacked the last box.
Today, I didn’t double-check the locks more than once.
Today, I didn’t jump when the doorbell rang.
