Tim, of course, was all questions as they left the clinic and got settled at home. She put Angela down for a nap, and the little girl nodded off without any complaint. She smiled at her little face, slack and innocent in sleep, and stroked her cheek gently. Their daughter had lived up to the name they'd picked for her. She'd been a good baby, right from the start. Only cried when she was hungry or wet, slept through the night from six months on.

Right now, with her help, Patrick was managing his work load. He had recovered from his setback after the Prendergast case. He was cutting back on the cigarettes, even, after Tim noted his nicotine-stained fingers and the sallow pallour of his skin and informed his father that he'd been reading about the detrimental effects on cigarette-smoking in The Lancet. Grumbling, Patrick had resolved to remove all copies of the medical journal from their home. He hadn't followed through, however.

Angela was nearing her first birthday and was toddling, standing with help and soon to be walking. It'd been easy to care for her while she was an infant, sitting in a pram, but as a toddler she would need more intensive supervision. Tim wouldn't be around all the time, and surely it wasn't fair to the boy to designate him his sister's defacto babysitter.

And, now, in four short months they'd be welcoming another little life into the world. She wouldn't be able to hide it for much longer, that was certain. In a few weeks' time it would be unmistakable beneath her pale blue uniform. She could start wearing jumpers or cardigans over the dress, she supposed, keeping her belly hidden from prying eyes for at least another couple of weeks. But she knew once she was well into her third trimester there would be no hiding it anymore. She'd seen so many first-time mothers barely showing through the first two-thirds of their pregnancy until one day they seemed to just…inflate, overnight.

And not to mention Patrick would be watching her like a hawk, encouraging her to take it easy, while taking over most of the workload himself. And what if something did go wrong? She'd seen what could; placental abruption, stillbirth, prematurity, birth defects, a breech baby. How would they manage?

She had thought her little family complete. That was not to say that she didn't dream that one day, when Angela was older and Tim was away at school, no doubt following in his father's footsteps, that maybe a little miracle would come along. If they kept trying, eventually one had to stick, right?

She hadn't anticipated this happening so quickly.

Things were balanced now. They had a system that worked and they all had their own job to do to keep it working. If she had to slow down now, or go on bedrest, how would Patrick cope?

A teardrop landed on the wooden frame of Angela's cot and she realised she'd been crying. Hastily, she wiped her eyes, taking a deep breath. Supper would need to be made. Patrick would be home soon and hungry, and Timothy would no doubt be ravenous, as he was growing like a weed, seemingly gaining another inch or two every time she saw him. She took a deep breath and turned to go to the kitchen.

Said boy was watching her from the door.

"Timothy!" she said, surprised.

"What's wrong, Mum?" he asked, taking a few tentative steps into the room. "Why did we have to leave the clinic so early? I heard some of the patients whispering, saying you were sick or something. Patsy tried to shush them but I heard anyway." Shelagh sighed, taking a seat on the edge of the bed near the baby's cot, feeling the fabric pull at the little swelling of her abdomen. She looked up at Tim.

"I'm fine, Timothy. Please don't worry," she told him, though she barely convinced herself.

"You were crying," he said, entering the bedroom and sitting down beside her on the bed.

"I'm just tired, that's all. I just…I stood up too quickly at the clinic and I fainted. Your father saw and came right away. That's what the women were talking about. But I'm fine, I promise." She smiled at the boy reassuringly, patting him on the back.

"You're going to have a baby, aren't you?" the boy asked. She could only gawp at him.

"Timothy! How—"

"I read that fainting is common in the first two...er…thirds of pregnancy due to decreased blood pressure. And your uniform has been getting a little tight in the front. Didn't you notice? I thought you and Dad knew and were just waiting to tell me." Shelagh could only shake her head at the boy in front of her. Twelve years old and already with a sharp enough eye to catch things his educated parents missed.

"Well it would have been helpful if you could've mentioned that to me or your father. We've been so busy lately that it came as a surprise to both of us today. Which is certainly quite appalling considering what we do for a living." Tim shrugged.

"But it was the doctors that told you that you couldn't have children. That's why you adopted Angela. So how would you know? It's not your fault, it's their fault. They should have told you that it could happen some day, that way you would be prepared if it did." Shelagh smiled and shook her head at the boy. "Did you know I read that at least 12 percent of women with scarring of the Fallopian tubes women end up conceiving? And sometimes even after a tubal ligation the tubes can grow back together and allow an egg to pass?"

"Timothy! Where on earth do you get this information from?"

"Library. I go there sometimes to read the journals. It's not far from here and they've got quite the selection." Again Shelagh was speechless. She'd known this boy since he was wee, barely older than Angela. And here he was speaking like a second-year medical student.

"Come here, you," she told him, pulling his still-gangly frame into her arms. No matter how wisely he spoke, he was still her little boy. He would never forget his mother, of course, and she would never expect him to. But Shelagh was the only mother he had now. She was the one he came to with his questions and ideas, who tended to his scrapes and cuts and nursed him through his illnesses. He was her son in every way that mattered.

"When is the baby due?" he asked, softly after a few seconds of companionable silence. She quickly did the math in her head.

"Erm…April. Late April, more or less."

"But that's only four months away!" he said. She nodded slowly. Those four short months would go by very quickly if they were as busy as the previous four. Still, she had Angela's baby clothes boxed away in the hope that someday they might expand their family, and she knew Chummy could help out with some if the baby turned out to be a boy. And they still had the pram and the little cot Angela'd slept in as a newborn. That wouldn't be too much of a problem.

But their home only had two bedrooms—one for Tim, and one for them and Angela. Short of moving to a larger home (and she couldn't think of when they'd possibly find the time), they'd need to move her cot in order to make room for baby.

And to where? It wasn't fair to Tim to have a toddler waking him up all hours. The living room? Have both babies in their room with them? That was a guaranteed way to ensure that neither parents nor children got any substantial amount of sleep.

She sighed. She was starting to feel that panic that so many of the women she had cared must have felt. One in nappies and one on the way, trying to make room and manage. Trying to give the older child his space.

And while they were considerably better off than most of those women, there was still the matter of the workload: the surgery and the clinic, not to mention the numerous house calls they were often sent on. And, as well, they had to think about who would care for the children they already had. Hire a nanny or a housekeeper? Could they afford that? She'd have to ask Patrick. She sighed again.

All her dreams were coming true. A big family, a wonderful husband. A career she valued and excelled at. So why did she feel so overwhelmed?

"You know, I can help, Mum," Tim told her, and she smiled, "I can take care of Angela whenever you need me to. I like doing it, really."

"Oh, Timothy. You shouldn't have to. You're still a boy! It doesn't matter that you're cleverer than boys much older than you, you're still supposed to be out having fun. Playing football, spending time with other children. You shouldn't have to care for your sister all the time."

"I don't mind, Mum, really! I've got Cubs still. And violin lessons. And school. That's enough socialising for me, really."

Shelagh laughed, kissing him on the temple fiercely.

"What did I do to deserve a son like you?" Tim shrugged.

"All you really had to do was love my dad," he said, and she laughed, stroking his back.

"That part was easy," she said, thinking back to how naturally things had developed between them. It hadn't taken much. Mend a few buttons here and there, a few long looks in the old kitchen at Nonnatus House. Seeing him working tirelessly despite his wife's untimely death, doing his best to be a good father. The arduous birth of Mave Carter's twins had been the turning point. The way he looked at her after that; she had known then it was hopeless. Then a certain three-legged race. She smiled, running her finger over the fading scar on her hand.

"I think that about you all the time, you know?" Tim said, interrupting her reverie. Shelagh looked down at the boy in confusion. "How lucky I am. I never thought things would be good again after Mum died. I thought it would be just us forever and it would always feel like someone was missing. But then he fell in love with you and I knew everything would be okay again. He loves you so much, you know?" Shelagh didn't know when the tears had started but there they were, falling down her cheeks and leaving dark wet marks on her pale blue uniform. "He wouldn't have been able to manage without you. You made him whole again."

A sob escaped her throat and she pulled the boy tight to her, burying her face in his hair. Oh, how she loved him. He hadn't come from her body, just as Angela hadn't, and yet she loved them both more than life itself. And already she felt such strong feelings for this little life fluttering around inside her, after only a few hours of discovering it even existed. It was dangerous, this love, terrifying. But it was so primal, so human. Shelagh wouldn't have it any other way. Her decision to leave the order had been the right one. She was meant to be a mother, by whatever means her children came to her. She loved them all the same.

She pulled away from Tim, cursing her hormones (she had been a little more weepy than usual lately, she realised now) and kissed him soundly on the top of the head.

"I love you, Timothy," she said, and the boy smiled shyly. "And I thank you for the kind words. They mean more to me than you'll ever know." He beamed at her. "Now go wash up get ready for supper, your father will be home soon."

Tim nodded, leaving her and the sleeping babe in the quiet. Her hand went to her belly again, feeling the baby's tiny frame brushing against her hand. She smiled. It was such a powerful feeling, to hold a life inside you and feel it growing and moving. Truly, she would have been happy whether she ever bore a child or not, with her lovely husband and the joys that were Angela and Tim.

But pregnancy was already proving to be something she was very happy to be allowed to experience. The feeling that her body was more than just a means of getting around. It was nourishing and developing a new life, sheltering it from harm. There was something comforting in carrying this little life around, in having it with her at all times. She smiled as the baby gave another particularly hard kick. Yes, she could certainly get used to this.