Happy Mother's Day to all mothers, aunts, grandmothers and mother figures, and everyone who has ever looked up to such a woman. Today is the day we remember that every day is mother's day!

Love You Better

I usually sleep in on Sundays whenever I can.

Which is whenever it isn't my turn to be the on-call doctor at Boston General's ER.

Which hasn't been often, these past three years.

Which must be why my eyes fly open at 5:15 AM anyway, even though no alarm goes off.

I sigh and stretch and turn over, positioning myself just right so I am in the small patch of early sun that is peeking through the inadequately-closed curtains. I smile and snuggle into the duvet. Jamie always says I'm drawn to sunlight more than a cat.

Hmm. Jamie.

My husband should be next to me still. His alarm doesn't go off until 5:30. But the duvet is thrown back, and the pillow still dented with the outline of his head. I reach out and follow the edges of his imprint with my fingertips, imagining I can still feel the warmth of his body in the traces he's left behind.

He can't have been up for long. But why is he up at all? Jamie values his sleep almost as much as he values his whisky, and as a Scot, and the owner of Lallybroch Distilleries, that is a lot.

And besides, he doesn't go into the office on Sunday. . .

So where is he?

I lay there inertly for a minute or two. I don't hear water flowing, so he's not taking a shower. The phone hasn't rung this morning, I'd have heard it. I always wake instantly at phone rings, even when my mobile is on mute and our home's only land-line is three rooms away. One of the many side-effects of being a doctor.

So he's not on the phone.

I stretch again, yawn, and ponder some more, to no avail.

I catch the smell of toast mere seconds before he strides into our bedroom carrying a tray loaded with all my favourite breakfast foods.

I sit up and smile eagerly, looking him up and down. He hasn't shaved yet, his hair is still tousled, his bathrobe shrugged on awkwardly. He clearly got up specifically to make me breakfast in bed. Why? I don't care, and neither does my stomach, which promptly growls.

He grins at me, "Morning Sassenach. I knew ye wouldnae be able to sleep past ye're alarm." He puts the tray over my lap.

"Mornin'," I say, still gravelly-voiced from sleep. I pick up a raspberry scone and dunk it in the nearest of the two mugs of coffee, then take a big bite and a long pull from the mug. I hum with contentment. "I don't know what I did last night to earn breakfast in bed, but you'll have to let me know so I can do it again. . ."

"Agch, it wasnae what ye did last night," he chuckles, sitting down next to me and putting an arm around my shoulders, "Although I did like it when ye. . ." he whispers briefly in my ear and then kisses my cheek as I laugh.

"Oh, really? Well, I'll take that under advisement." I flip my hair out of my face and wink at him.

He snorts, "Saucy wee thing."

He reaches for something on the tray, and I slap his hands away. "Hey! Ye ken that wee mug of coffee is for me, aye?" He fends me off as he picks it up to take a sip.

"Oh? Who says?"

"The one who made ye breakfast in bed says, mo Sorcha."

"Hmmph," I grunt, "Fine. I thought you were trying to snatch a piece of bacon anyway."

Lightning-fast he grabs a slice of bacon and crunches half of it in one bite before I can even yell at him for it. I settle for giving him some serious stank-eye. Or as much as is possible while holding back an intense desire to laugh.

"So, if I didn't earn it last night, when did I earn it, hm?" I say, tapping open my first soft-boiled egg.

"Twelve weeks ago, last Friday night," he says, softly.

"Oh." My hand automatically goes to my belly. One of his hands instantly follows, stroking over my fingers.

"Oh indeed. Our bairn." He kisses my temple and nuzzles into my hair.

"But. . . Jamie. . ."

"Aye?"

"What is it about today? Why do this for me now?" I spread a spoonful of egg over a bite of toast, "Not that I don't love it, but. . ."

"Well, we're in America. I thought we might as well celebrate Mother's Day on the American date."

My heart almost melts. I snuggle into his bathrobe, my breakfast almost forgotten as I realize again just how much I love him, just how lucky I am, and just how good a father he's going to be. "What did I do to deserve you, James Fraser?"

"Ye loved me," he tilts my chin up and meets my eyes, "That's all."

It's a long minute before I can focus on my food again.

"Mmmm," I hum against his mouth, "Not that this isn't fun, but you know how much I hate cold toast. . ."

He laughs, and prods at my tray again, only this time not to pilfer any more of my breakfast. "Seems ye missed a wee something here, Sassenach."

There's a pale cream coloured envelope underneath my napkin, and he's quite right, I haven't noticed it until now. I flip it open, and pull out a glossy white card, with a flowery border. In the middle is a poem in Gaelic, printed with gold ink.

Bidh gaol agam ort,

Airson mìle beatha.

Agus an uair sin,

Ceud mìle a bharrachd.

Agus fhathast,

Bidh gaol agam ort nas fheàrr,

Na rinn mi an latha roimhe.

I turn the card over, and in the same golden lettering, is the translation.

I will love you,

For a thousand lifetimes.

And then,

One hundred thousand more.

And still,

I'll love you better,

Than I did the day before.