The flat was still dark when Isabelle woke to the faint rustle of wrapping paper and the conspiratorial whispers of small voices in the hallway.
"Mum said not before seven," Becca hissed.
"It's seven now," Luke whispered back. "Almost. Kind of."
A smile tugged at Isabelle's lips before she even opened her eyes. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open and two faces peeked in — Luke's bright with mischief, Becca's glowing with anticipation.
"Is it morning?" Isabelle murmured, her voice still heavy with sleep.
"Santa came!" Becca squealed, abandoning any attempt at stealth as she raced across the room and flung herself onto the bed.
Robert stirred beside Isabelle, still half-asleep, his voice low and amused. "Did he now?"
Luke nodded solemnly. "The stockings are full, and there are two bikes in the living room. One red and one green."
Robert feigned shock. "Bikes? You two must have been very good this year."
Luke grinned, already running down the hall.
Isabelle sat up, gathering her hair into a loose ponytail, and smiled at the sight — Robert tousle-haired and smiling, her children wide-eyed with joy, and the faint golden light of early morning spilling softly through the curtains.
"Come on, Daddy" she said, pushing back the blankets. "Let's see what Santa brought."
The living room looked like something from a snow globe — fairy lights glimmering on the tree, the faint scent of cinnamon in the air, wrapping paper already scattered like confetti across the carpet.
Becca twirled in her new sparkly pyjamas, flicking her hair out around her like a miniature starlet. Luke was testing the bell on his bike for what had to be the tenth time.
Robert had pulled on his Christmas jumper — navy, with a large, glittering Rudolph on the front, proudly chosen by Becca — and was heading for the kitchen.
"Manual said those bikes should've taken twenty minutes to put together," he said, handing Isabelle a steaming mug of coffee. "So naturally, it took forty-five."
Isabelle laughed softly from the sofa. "Rather you than me."
"Ah," he said, smiling, "but worth every second just to see their faces."
Her smile widened — light, easy, filled with quiet happiness.
It felt simple. Ordinary. Beautifully so.
"Good heavens," Helene exclaimed from the doorway, surveying the chaos. "It looks like Christmas exploded in here."
Becca ran to her grandmother, pointing proudly at her bike. "Look what Santa brought me!"
Helene crouched to admire it, her eyes soft with affection. "It's just what you wanted, sweetheart."
Robert rose, offering her a cup of coffee. "Merry Christmas, Helene."
She smiled warmly at him. "Merry Christmas, Robert. You seem to be surviving."
"Barely," he said with a grin. "The bikes almost broke me last night."
By late morning, the flat was filled with the scent of roasting turkey, cinnamon, and mince pies. Christmas music played softly in the background while the children sprawled on the floor, surrounded by their new treasures.
Isabelle stood by the window for a moment, looking out over the snow-covered rooftops. Her reflection shimmered faintly against the glass — soft, a little pale, but deeply content.
Robert came up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist, his voice low against her ear. "You all right?"
She nodded, leaning back against him. "Just thinking how different this Christmas feels."
"Different good or different bad?"
She turned in his arms, smiling up at him. "Good. Really good. I'm happy."
He kissed her forehead gently. "Then I'm happy."
Lunch was loud and perfect — laughter, clinking glasses, and Luke's nonstop chatter about his new action figure.
After dessert, when the children had wandered back to the living room to play, Helene began gathering plates.
"Leave it," Isabelle said, standing. "I'll do it."
But then she hesitated. "Mum," she said softly. "Could you sit for a moment? We want to tell you something."
Helene looked between them, brows raised. "Oh?"
Isabelle's throat tightened. She glanced at Robert, who gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
"Go on," he murmured.
She took a breath. "We found out yesterday that I'm… well, that we're having a baby."
For a moment, Helene didn't move — then her eyes widened, a hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, Isabelle…"
She came around the table, wrapping her daughter in a hug that was both fierce and tender. "I'm so happy for you," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
Robert stood too, and Helene turned to him, smiling through tears. "And you — you'll be wonderful. You already are."
He returned her smile, shy, but sincere. "I'll do my best."
Helene's gaze softened. "I know you will."
Isabelle poured juice while Helene filled two wine glasses. "A toast," Helene said, raising hers. "To family — and to new beginnings."
Robert lifted his glass, his eyes meeting Isabelle's across the table. "To family," he echoed quietly.
Her heart swelled, full to the brim.
The rest of the afternoon drifted by in waves of warmth — laughter, clinking glasses, the soft rustle of wrapping paper as Isabelle tidied ribbons into a bin bag.
Becca appeared suddenly at her side, clutching a small, lopsided parcel wrapped in far too much tape.
"Mummy," she said solemnly, "this one's from me."
Isabelle crouched down. "For me? You wrapped it yourself?"
Becca nodded proudly. "Nana took me to buy it, but I chose it."
Inside was a charm bracelet — tiny hearts, a star, and a delicate silver snowflake.
"It's beautiful," Isabelle whispered, blinking fast.
Robert came to stand beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "It really is."
Becca beamed. "So you'll always remember this Christmas."
Isabelle hugged her daughter tightly, her voice catching. "I don't think I'll ever forget it."
Later that evening, after they'd come back from the park where the children tested their bikes, they all curled up on the sofa to watch The Gruffalo.
When the film ended, Helene carried the children to bed, leaving Isabelle and Robert alone in the soft glow of the fairy lights.
"It feels strange," she said quietly. "To have everything feel so… full and so good. For so long, it was just one day at a time. Survive, keep going, don't hope too much."
Robert turned toward her, brushing his fingers lightly against her cheek. "And now?"
She met his eyes, her voice a whisper. "Now I feel like I'm the luckiest person alive."
His hand slid to her stomach, resting there gently. "So do I."
For a while they sat in silence, the quiet wrapping around them like a blanket — the hum of the city outside, the faint murmur of the television, the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing.
Then Isabelle asked softly, "Do you think we should tell the children soon?"
Robert smiled faintly. "Let's give it a little time. Let them have this Christmas first — just as it is."
She nodded. "Yes. Just this."
He reached for her hand, their fingers intertwining. "Next year," he said, his voice low, "there'll be one more stocking hanging on that wall."
She smiled, eyes glimmering. "You really think we can manage all this?"
"I don't think," he said gently. "I know."
He drew her close, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Merry Christmas, my love."
She smiled sleepily against his shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Robert."
Outside, snow began to fall again — slow and silent, blanketing the city in soft white.
And inside the little flat, surrounded by love, warmth, and the quiet promise of everything still to come, Isabelle let herself drift into sleep — her hand resting over Robert's, her heart steady with the fragile, beautiful certainty of belonging.