For my lovely friends, but especially Hannah. I hope you get better soon.
Call the midwife does not belong to me, it is the property of the BBC, Heidi TM, and Jennifer Worth.
When his mother first died, Tim thought he'd never be happy again. He'd never have someone he could go to for the love and care his mother had given him.
His father, Patrick, had disappeared in to a haze of depression, providing the bare essentials: food, warmth, money - but none of the focused attention that he had when his wife, Timothy's mother, had been alive.
At first, Timothy and his father had muddled along, Tim often alone in their little flat while his father worked. Sometimes he was able to pull his father out of his cloud, but it wasn't often, although it became easier as the months and years went by. While Timothy had everything he needed, sometimes he had to forego what he wanted, but it didn't matter to him. Patrick at least was looking after him. The young boy couldn't help but notice that his father was neglecting himself. Outfits thrown together that barely matched, or that weren't clean. Weren't ironed. Buttons were lost, worn away by rough hands that no longer cared about delicacy.
But it was preferable to having a stepmother, Timothy always thought. Now he didn't have his mother, what good would a stepmother be? She wouldn't love his father like his mother had. She would barely care for a son who didn't care for her disrespecting his mother's memories.
But now, a few years later, Timothy's opinion had changed completely. From not wanting a stepmother, from considering living in a haze of depression, a cloud filling their small home preferable to having an intruder, he could now not be happier.
He left his beloved younger sister laying next to their father and quietly left the room to greet his stepmother. His mum. His little sister would not have come about if Sister Bernadette hadn't left their lives and Shelagh rejoined them. And now as his mum reassured him and he fell into her arms, he felt at home.
When his mother first died, Tim thought he'd never be happy again. He'd never have someone he could go to for the love and care his mother had given him.
He was wrong. Shelagh loved him just as much and he felt as at home in her arms and as comforted in her arms as he had in his mother's, which was more than he had ever considered possible - when his mother had initially died, when his adoration for Sister Bernadette had started, or even when his father and she became engaged. But now she was his mum. The person who tucked him in and kissed him goodnight, even though he swore he didn't need it any more. The person who allowed him to choose his sister's name. The woman who stood by his side through every second of his recovery from Polio. The woman who he turned to after a long day of being the grown up and caring for his ill father, who could give him the hug he needed and who he could hand over all the weight on his shoulders to.
Timothy Turner loved both his mums. He loved his life; his sunny, brilliant, life with his mum and his dad and his darling little sister. He had come a long way from the boy who wanted nothing more than to remain in a cloudy family with no stepmother and no happy life. Now he was a teenager, who thanked his lucky stars every day that his father had fallen in love with his mum. Shelagh had brought life back into their home. A baby girl. A family. And he had a mum again, who loved hugging him, whether he needed it or not. He could be a child again. He didn't have to bear the weight of the world and carry it unaided. Not any more. Not with her by his side.