The engine clicks off, and the quiet hum fades, replaced by birdsong and the distant rush of wind brushing through trees. We’re home. Our home. Yours and mine—and now hers, too.

Tilly sits in the backseat, legs still, hands gripping the seatbelt across her chest. Her curls are a little lopsided from the long day, and the sunlight coming through the trees scatters gold across her cheeks. I twist in my seat to look at her, heart already a puddle. “You alright, love?” I ask gently, giving her a soft smile.

She doesn’t answer, not with words, but her big brown eyes flicker to mine, cautious but curious. It’s been a long morning. The court session was quiet, mostly. Formal. But when the judge said it—‘Matilda Styles’—I nearly forgot how to breathe. You squeezed my hand so tight. I think we both knew it already in our bones, but hearing it out loud made it real. We’re a family now.

Tilly shifts, craning her neck to look past me, out the window. Her tiny lips part, and I follow her gaze. She sees it—the garden. Our whole backyard is awash in colour, a wild sea of purples, oranges, yellows. The bees are somewhere in there, bouncing lazily from petal to petal. I planted most of that with you. You laughed when I fell into the lavender patch last spring.

And then, just like that, Tilly unbuckles herself. No prompting. No hesitation. She pushes the car door open and hops out with a little squeak in her shoes. I scramble out after her—nearly trip on the gravel, of course—but she’s already darting across the grass with the awkward energy of a toddler who doesn’t quite trust her legs. I trail behind, chest full, heart beating like I’m twenty again on stage somewhere.

She stops at the edge of the wildflower beds. Crouches low. Little fingers hover just above a tall, pinkish bloom. I crouch beside her slowly, careful not to scare the moment away. “That's a foxglove,” I whisper. “See how it looks like little fairy hats?” Her fingers twitch, but she doesn’t touch. She’s so gentle. So careful. There’s something about her restraint that squeezes something tight in my chest. I can see it—she wants to, but she doesn’t dare.

“You can have it, you know,” I say softly, reaching out and gently plucking the flower from its stalk. I hand it to her, and her tiny hands close around it like it’s the most precious thing in the world. “It’s pink,” she says, voice small, but sure. “It’s my favourite.” “Is it?” I grin. “Mine too.”

She beams. It’s the first real smile she’s given me all day, and I think it might be the best one I’ve ever earned.

And then I see you. You’ve stepped into the garden, your eyes shining in that way that always unravels me. I see your gaze flick from me to her, to the flower in her hand, and I see your breath catch. I swallow thickly and look back at Tilly. She’s inspecting the flower, serious business. Like it holds all the answers. I want to cry. I kind of already am.

For so long, we tried. From the minute we got married in 2018, it was always part of the plan. And then that appointment, where they told me the truth—infertile. I’ll never forget the way you looked at me. Not with pity. Just love. It crushed me. I wanted to give you everything.

But then we chose this. Chose her. The process was long and heavy. Home assessments, workshops, interviews that made us spill every piece of who we were. And then we met Matilda. Shy, sweet Matilda with her too-big clothes and soft voice. We knew. And now she’s here. In our garden. Holding my hand.

“Can I give this to Mama?” she asks, looking up at me. My heart shatters in the best way. “Yeah,” I whisper. “She’d love that.”

She gets up, runs to you—still a bit clumsy—and offers the flower like a trophy. You drop to your knees, arms out, eyes glassy. I watch as you pull her into your arms. She goes willingly. Trusts you. Already. And I stand there, in the middle of the garden, in the middle of this life we built, completely undone.

This is it. I’m yours. You’re mine. And she’s ours. Matilda Styles — Our daughter.