Disclaimer: Not mine, all credit and copyright belong to Heidi Thomas, Jennifer Worth, Neal St Productions & the BBC.

Author's Note: This first chapter sets the scene in the Turner household post-adoption. Subsequent chapters may occur earlier in the timeline. To make it easier to follow, each chapter will be marked with Angela Turner's age at the time the events within it took place.

In this chapter Angela is one month old.

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Shelagh slipped her key into the lock and stole into the hallway, quickly shrugging off her coat as she did so. She had ended choir practice fifteen minutes earlier than she should because she couldn't wait any longer to be home, reunited with her beautiful family. The word echoed through her head for what seemed the thousandth time. She couldn't stop the smile which spread across her face as she thought of them: her dashing and devoted husband, her sweet-natured (though occasionally sassy) stepson and, to complete the picture, the most gorgeous little girl in the whole world.

"Hello?" she called softly, not wishing to startle anyone who was downstairs or disturb anyone who was upstairs. Despite being out on call until the early hours, Patrick had insisted that he was fine to look after the baby for the evening, that his wife should finally resume her rehearsals with the Choral Society after all-but forgetting them in the weeks since their competitive triumph.

She had left him with a pang in her heart, sitting in his armchair giving Angela her bottle. The baby was suckling intently and remained oblivious to the gentle kiss and caress her mother bestowed upon her head.

Now there was a low lamp light illuminating the doorway to the living room but light was also spilling on to the landing above her and she couldn't determine which room it might be from.

Receiving no response to her call, she gently pushed open the living room door and peeked her head round it. Her heart almost stopped at the sight which greeted her: Patrick lay on his back on the couch, filling the length of it - apart from his slipper-clad feet which were dangling over one end. His head was propped on a cushion at the other end, his sleeping face angled slightly towards her and towards his shoulder, where his large hand was wrapped around the tiny form of a softly-snoring baby. Both father and daughter had their mouths slightly open in repose and Shelagh could hear their breaths sighing in synchronicity.

She took a moment to drink them in, wanting to store this mental image with the many others she had accumulated over the past three weeks: Timothy holding his baby sister for the first time; Patrick dancing round their bedroom rocking the little girl back to sleep; the look of pride and wonder on his face as he heard her sing a lullaby to their daughter for the first time.

She padded gently over to them and crouched down by her daughter's tiny hand where it was curled against Patrick's shoulder. She couldn't resist reaching out to stroke her finger over the dainty digits, breathing in the talcum powder scent which indicated that her Daddy had given her a bath before bed. Although, obviously, a moment of relaxation had overtaken them both before Patrick could ascend the stairs.

Shelagh lowered herself gently to kneel on the floor beside them. In the whirlwind of events which had overtaken the Turner household in the past few weeks, it was the quiet moments like these which gave her the greatest joy. Her eyes swept over the delicate features of the sleeping baby, drinking in every detail - though she was sure each one was already permanently etched on her mind, so adoringly had she gazed at her new daughter in the weeks since they had brought her home.

Similarly, her gaze moved over the familiar features of the husband she loved beyond all measure. Her lips quirked into a smile at the peace, the utter contentment, she could read in his face, and then she found herself laughing quietly at the unidentified substance she saw streaking the ends of his unruly hair where it had flopped over his forehead in the vicinity of their daughter's rosebud mouth.

His eyelids fluttered slightly at her quiet exhalation, so she reached to sweep the lock of hair in question back and away from the baby's face lest it tickle her. His eyes slowly blinked open as she did so and a gentle smile spread across his face as he took her in. His eyes flicked quickly down towards the peaceful form of their daughter and then back up again to meet her gaze. "Hello," he whispered in a voice thick with sleep and rich with warmth. "You're home." His words felt like a welcome and an embrace and an invitation all rolled into one.

Gingerly he swung his legs to the floor and brought his other hand up to cradle the baby. Oh-so carefully he managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position and, while Angela made several tiny grousing noises which caused them both to hold their breath, she did not stir any further. Patrick reached for his wife's hand and beckoned her on to the couch with him. As she tucked in beside him he lowered the little girl down into her waiting arms. "Here's your Mummy, my little angel," he murmured, causing a surge of happiness to course through Shelagh.

As Patrick released his hold on the baby he impulsively leant down to place a featherlight kiss on her downy head. And then, much to Shelagh's surprise as she was now gazing once more at the sleeping infant who so captivated her, he ducked in to ambush her mouth with a kiss not-quite-so light but equally as loving. He moved his lips gently but insistently against hers until they parted and she sighed into his mouth. The tenderness of his touch drew her in, her heart as full of love for him as her arms were full of tender care for their daughter.

When he finally broke the kiss and pulled back he couldn't help but break into a grin at her raised eyebrows: "What was that for?" she asked with amused affection.

"I missed you," he shrugged happily. "We missed you."

His smile was infectious and she replied in kind: "I missed you too. Both of you."

She tore her eyes away momentarily to glance towards the table, seeing Timothy's school books neatly stacked there. "All of you," she amended, her smile widening at the thought of her much-loved stepson, now a doting big brother to the little baby cradled in her arms. "Did Timothy finish his homework?"

Patrick shook his head ruefully. "Not all of it. He was too busy playing with this little one," - he stroked a finger down the softness of the baby's cheek. "I had to take her off him and sit at the table while he did his sums. He says he prefers it when you help him. Apparently I try to tell him the answers instead of helping him to work them out for himself."

Shelagh laughed, picturing the scene. They were so alike in many respects, her boys. Both had highly inquiring minds but there was a tendency in each of them to want to run before they could walk. Almost literally in Tim's case, she thought, when it had come to removing the braces which his bout of polio had occasioned him to wear. The poor boy had been through so much, it made her heart swell with love and pride to think of how brave he'd been.

"I'll help him with the rest of it after breakfast," she reassured her husband. Her eyes were drawn downwards then as she felt the baby begin to squirm in her arms. A wriggle of her body was followed by one foot kicking against Shelagh's thigh, a tiny bunched fist reaching up towards her. Angela's eyes blinked open and met those of her mother, her mouth silently opening and closing as if in greeting.

"Hello my darling girl," Shelagh cooed. "Are you happy to see me? Was that a smile for Mummy?"

"Actually, my love, I think she's hungry - right on cue ," said Patrick looking at his watch. "I gave her a bottle just before her bath, around seven o'clock. Three hours as usual."

He reached over and brushed his little finger over the baby's lips, watching in amusement as she tried to suckle on it.

"That's my girl. Regular as clockwork aren't you?"

He withdrew his hand and stood up from the couch. "I'll heat up her next one. Do you want a Horlicks before bed?"

Shelagh nodded in contented agreement and turned her attention back to rocking the now wide-awake infant, trying to soothe away her increasing fidgetiness. Angela's mouth opened and closed once more and all of a sudden her eyes scrunched closed and a sharp wail pierced the air.

"Oh dear! This won't do, will it?" Shelagh rose from the couch and transferred the baby to her shoulder, rubbing her back and singing softly into her ear, trying to hush her. She walked through to the kitchen where Patrick was busy placing the bottle in a pan of boiling water.

"Two more minutes," he smiled. "Do you want me to take her?" Suddenly overcome with tiredness, Shelagh nodded gratefully and carefully transferred the little girl back into her father's arms. He continued to rock her, murmuring nonsense to her while cradling her close to his face and dropping the occasional kiss onto her reddened cheeks. Gradually her flailing limbs stilled and her cries tailed off to a whimper. "That's my girl," he cooed again, smiling in triumph at a relieved Shelagh.

"I'm going to have a real Daddy's girl on my hands when she's older, aren't I?" she asked fondly.

She tested the bottle and offered it to him but he shook his head. "I gave her a feed earlier. I think she'd like to spend some more time with her Mummy before bedtime. Wouldn't you, my little angel?" he asked, stroking her cheek.

He passed the snuffling baby back to Shelagh who placed the bottle to her lips. She was gratified to see her immediately begin to suckle noisily from it . Patrick moved closer and slipped an arm round her shoulder, placing a tender kiss to her crown.

"My two beautiful girls," he proclaimed softly. "Why don't you take her up and I'll bring your drink up with me?"

By the time he'd tidied away in the kitchen, turned off all the lights and carried the steaming mug upstairs, Angela was safely tucked up in her cot at the foot of the bed and Shelagh was equally cosily ensconced in their bed.

He surveyed the room, a smile playing on his lips until Shelagh looked up from her bible passage and noticed he was still in the doorway.

"What's the matter?" she asked quizzically.

"Nothing's the matter," he sighed dramatically, happily. "Nothing at all. I must be the luckiest man in Poplar. No, the whole of the East End. No! The whole world. I'm the luckiest man in the world."

She smiled indulgently. She'd heard those words before - had heard them often in the early days of their fledgling relationship, in the days when she had been too self-conscious to respond to his flattery. And she'd heard them more often still in their early days as newlyweds, when, increasingly emboldened, she had come to appreciate the truth behind the sentiment; that against all odds they had found each other, had come to share a bond forged in a crucible of suffering and separation, and had emerged together to forge a new life filled with love and laughter, joy and hope.

But then so many of those hopes had been dashed, and suffering and separation - or at least distance - had seemed to beset them again. Only four weeks ago she had found herself questioning the happiness she had thought would last forever, had begun to feel the foundations beneath her start to shake, the certainties crumble. But he had clambered over the rubble to reach for her once more, to pull her towards him out of the fog and to set them back on the right road.

And now: now she could hardly believe how many dreams had come true. She beamed at him and his eyes glittered in response to the emotions he could read flitting across her face.

"Come here," she beckoned, putting her bible aside and reaching a hand towards him. He strode eagerly forward, deftly depositing the mug of milky drink on the bedside table, twining his fingers through hers and scooting alongside her on the bed. He moulded himself to her contours under the covers, his other arm reaching round her waist and drawing her towards him.

"I'm here," he murmured against her ear. "You're here. She's here," - he nodded towards the baby's cot - "and Tim is just down the hallway. My whole world..." She angled herself towards him and interrupted his litany by laying a gentle finger to his lips.

"Hush," she instructed quietly. "I've just got her off to sleep. Besides, you don't have to tell me. You're my whole world too, all three of you. You're everything I've ever wanted, all I need. And I... "

She paused as she felt his stubble start to scrape her skin, his lips grazing against her neck and down to her collar bone. They found their way to the one spot he knew she couldn't resist and she suppressed a moan of pleasure. Her arms snaked round the nape of his neck and under her breath he heard her whisper: "And I don't want to let go any more..."

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