We moved into the cabin on December 5th, the day after my divorce judgment was signed. It was the only legal work I'd done in years and it was a bit surreal to be drafting paperwork again, like I'd done a million times, but with my name as the petitioner and with a ballpoint pen instead of a computer.

Raph hadn't said much, just glanced it over and signed it. Assets were a weird concept in this society, but I happily gave him the house and winery and we established joint custody for the kids. Matt, who was down at the courthouse pretty frequently, filed it for me, brought me the signed judgment and left a copy with Raph as well, and we didn't talk about it again. Matt had been over a few times, and had made it clear that I could begin working again whenever I wanted. The legal system was a mess, and they needed folks to help rewrite laws and procedures for this new world as well as do the hard work of shepherding the accused through the murky process.

I appreciated his confidence in me, but I wasn't ready to jump back into it. There was too much to do, even if I hadn't been ready to pop out a baby, and Daryl and I hadn't talked about me going back to work. For the moment, legally ending my marriage and moving into our new home was plenty to focus on.

The cabin was beautiful, rustic, and still smelling of freshly cut pine trees. For now it was mostly one big room, with a kitchen area in one corner, and a small table and a comfortable sofa near the wood stove. He'd enclosed the space on one side of the front door as a small bathroom, with a composting toilet and room to eventually add a bathtub or shower, if we could get solar panels to run a hot water heater someday.

We'd eventually enclose the area next to the kitchen as a bedroom, but for now it was open and just had a queen sized mattress on the floor. We'd taken the furniture from the small apartment over the garage at my old house, which we used to use as an Airbnb, but would need to gradually figure out storage for clothing and baby supplies.

Daryl had cut and split enough wood to last us the winter, but the cabin was cold that first morning, the fire having burned down into coals overnight. He got up and stoked it, then boiled water so I could have tea, while I watched from the cozy bed. I was constantly uncomfortable these days, and often grouchy, but in that moment I felt like I couldn't ask for anything more in life.

Daryl may not have had much experience with relationships or talking about feelings, and I knew he still felt out of his depth in dealing with my family and the differences in our pasts, but he found satisfaction in sacrificing his own comfort in order to help others, especially when it came to me. And he was a fast learner, so despite his clear lack of experience with parenting, and his deeply seated worry that he'd turn out like his father, I knew he'd be amazing.

Christmas was a quiet holiday relative to the old month-long string of traditions and parties. I went to my parent's house that morning and gave the kids the new mittens and hats I'd kitted them. The adults had stopped exchanging gifts when everything fell apart, but my mother had made her traditional cinnamon rolls and we enjoyed watching the little ones open their presents.

The kids had gotten to a point where our new family structure seemed normal, and they'd spent some time at the cabin with me over the past couple of weeks. Luke was fascinated with Daryl's bow and had gone out with him a couple of times to practice shooting it, though he wasn't strong enough to draw the string back yet. Lucy, while still a little suspicious of him, had been mostly polite, and we'd worked through a lot of her big feelings through long talks. It was definitely weird to not live with my own children, and I really hoped they'd eventually be comfortable enough to spend nights at the cabin.

Daryl had been up and out of the cabin before I'd left, planning to go hunting, so I'd put the small gift I'd wrapped for him on the table, labeled "To Daryl, from Santa". He hated sentimentality most of the time, and I was a little unsure of whether he'd resent the reminder that his childhood Christmases had been less than happy, but I also wanted to start making up for that. I'd traded some herbal remedies and salves in town for a set of carving tools in a soft leather case that rolled up. My dad had helped me emboss his name along the bottom edge of the case as well. He'd been spending the winter evenings whittling new bolts for his bow, but the knives he had were too bulky and he frequently got frustrated and had to scrap them when they cut a little too deeply.

I came back to the cabin and found that Daryl had apparently been working on a present for me too, and had set it up while I thought he was hunting. It was a bed frame, made from narrow logs, with a low footboard and a freeform pattern in the headboard, made from twisty willow branches. I was running my hand over the smooth curve of one of the posts when I heard him open the door, and turned around to find him watching me anxiously.

"I love it" I said, wiping away the familiar tears (I couldn't wait to be done with the hormones), "it's incredibly beautiful, but you're a cheater, Daryl Dixon. You said you didn't want to celebrate Christmas."

"It's Christmas?" he teased. "Must be a coincidence - I just finished the bed yesterday. And you didn' listen anyway, unless you think I'm gonna buy that Santa Claus shit." I shook my head and kissed him soundly. "I don't know what you're talking about, but I do know we need to go back to bed. Just to make sure it's sturdy enough." He complied happily, and I thought, lying there later, that it was the best Christmas I could remember.