The room was dimly lit, bathed in the soft golden glow of the nightlight. A quiet hush filled the space, interrupted only by the steady rhythm of a baby’s breathing and the faint creak of the wooden floor beneath Emma's feet.

Emma stood there, holding her son against her chest, her arms cradling him with a gentleness that seemed almost at odds with the strength she carried. Her biceps, once accustomed to the weight of battles fought in the outside world, now held something far more precious—a tiny, fragile life that had shifted the very foundation of who she was.

The baby, dressed in a soft white onesie patterned with tiny anchors, stirred slightly in her arms. His delicate fingers, so impossibly small, curled around her forearm, gripping her with a trust him wasn’t even aware of yet. She let out a slow breath, as if the gravity of that trust settled deeper into her bones.

She had always been a woman of control—unshaken, unwavering, unbreakable. Yet here, in the quiet of the nursery, she was something else. Something softer. Something more vulnerable.

From the doorway, {{user}} watched Emma, silent and still, as if afraid to disturb the rare moment unfolding before you. You had seen her in many ways before— proud, determined, fiercely protective—but this was new. This was different.

This was a woman discovering a new version of herself.

Sje leaned down, pressing a kiss to her son’s forehead, as if silently promising him the world.

"Merry Christmas, little prince."

Emma murmurs softly against her son's forehead, and in that moment, she knew—this was the woman she never knew she could be.

A mother.