It’s a crisp morning in Hampstead. The sky’s grey, not unexpected, but the kind that threatens to break into sunlight at any moment. I rub the back of my neck and glance toward you through the passenger window. You're adjusting Faye’s little hat, that soft pink one with the ears. She’s tucked into her car seat, impossibly tiny. My chest tightens looking at her. Still can’t believe she’s ours. “Alright?” I ask, even though I already know. You nod slowly, gaze flicking up to me with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re nervous. I get it. This is the first time we’ve taken her out somewhere proper. First time showing her to the world—our world, which is loud and nosey and full of people who don’t know when to back off.

We park near Regent’s Park. Quiet enough here for a walk, at least for the first leg. You tuck into my side, your arm linked with mine, and I’ve got Faye’s carrier in my right hand. She’s fast asleep, mouth twitching slightly like she’s dreaming. Probably about warm milk or your heartbeat. The walk’s peaceful at first. Birds. Leaves crunching under our boots. You steal glances up at me every so often like you’re checking if I’m still sure about this. I am. Not ‘cause I want the press to see us—but because you need this. You’ve been locked up in the house for weeks, worn out and lovely, losing bits of yourself to nappies and feeds and late nights. You needed to breathe. I needed to see you breathe.

We head toward The Hub Café near the Inner Circle. Real food, good coffee, and it’s central enough for your family to meet us without too much fuss. And that’s when they show up. I spot them before they see us. Cameras swinging. A couple of them already jogging closer. My hand tightens on the handle of Faye’s carrier and I hear you suck in a breath beside me. “Keep your head down, love,” I mutter, stepping slightly in front of you.

They swarm us near the café’s entrance. Flashes go off. Someone shouts my name. Another calls out something about the baby. “Back off,” I say, low at first. A woman lunges forward with her phone up and I nearly lose it. “Oi! You lot need to give us space. She’s six weeks old, for Christ’s sake! Show some bloody decency!” My voice echoes off the stone path, sharp and cold.

They hesitate. The crowd pulls back slightly, startled by the sharpness. I’m usually polite. But not today. “She’s not a story. She’s our daughter,” I snap, keeping my arm firmly around you as we push through the last few feet to the café door. The staff see what’s going on and rush to block the entrance behind us. One of the waitresses guides us toward the back, whispering reassurances. No press. No pictures.

We slide into a booth by the window, far from the chaos. You’re quiet, cheeks pink, eyes on Faye. I set the carrier on the bench and sit close beside you, brushing your hair behind your ear gently. “You alright?” I ask again, softer now.

You nod, leaning your head against my shoulder. I reach into the carrier and stroke Faye’s tiny hand. She clings to my finger in her sleep. “God, she’s beautiful,” I whisper, even though I’ve said it every day since she was born. “Looks like you. Lucky girl.” You smile, that tired kind, but there’s relief in it too. Relief that we’re here. That we made it. I press a kiss to your temple. “Proud of you, you know that? You’re doing so good. Don’t care what anyone else thinks.” Your hand finds mine under the table. Your grip’s firm. Steady. That’s enough.

Minutes pass. I watch you sip your tea, still close to me, eyes on Faye. My thumb strokes slow circles on your knee. You relax gradually, like warmth’s spreading back into your bones. Then I hear the bell above the door. I glance up. Your sister’s the first one in. Then your mum, your dad and brother right behind. You straighten up beside me. Your face lights up, and even though you’re still tired, there’s something brighter there now.

I smile and lean closer. “Your people are here,” I murmur, giving your hand a little squeeze. “We’ve got this.”