The whining coming from the cot in the room at the end of the hall woke Shelagh immediately, as it always did. Her ears were acutely sensitive to every sound Angela ever made, and her waking routine was one Shelagh knew inside and out. She had exactly one minute to dash to the baby's room before she let out a scream that would wake the whole house. Shelagh opened her eyes to the pre-dawn blue haze of the bedroom and carefully wriggled from beneath Patrick's arms and the sheets. The December cold shocked her bare body – her husband had convinced her that last night was as good as their wedding anniversary, and they'd had no need for clothes – and she quickly and silently dressed in the nightgown and robe she had laid out the night before. A quick glance at yesterday's discarded slip on the floor prompted her to scoop it up and lay it on the bed where she had just slept. Shelagh smiled at the thought of Patrick waking to see the shiny fabric lying limply beside him.

"Good morning my sweet girl," she breathed when she placed Angela on her shoulder. The baby squirmed then settled in her mother's arms as soon as she heard her voice. "Let's change your napkin and let the boys sleep a bit more. Would you like to go downstairs to see if Father Christmas brought you anything?" Shelagh took Angela's yawn to be a silent agreement, and she carried her from the room and down the stairs.

Shelagh surveyed the mountain of gifts that sat around the Christmas tree and breathed in the earthy scent of stale pine. There were big and small boxes, long and short, fat and thin, each with a handwritten name tag for one of the four Turners. Timothy's name was most prevalent, of course. Shelagh and Patrick had knowingly gone overboard trying to make up for the previous year when he had spent Christmas in a hospital bed. His abundance of gifts seemed to overshadow the paltry stack bearing his sister's name, but Shelagh glanced at the baby in her arms and cooed at her.

"You don't care how many gifts you have, do you dearest? No, of course you don't," she kissed the button of her daughter's nose and pressed her cheek to the baby's soft face. This was Angela's first Christmas. Still only a few weeks old, Shelagh knew she would not remember it, though she made a solemn vow never to let the child forget what a precious gift she was to their family.

"The perfect Christmas present," she sang down at her. She leaned to place another kiss on Angela's forehead and heard the soft padding of feet descending the stairs. After Patrick tiptoed around the corner he stopped and sank his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. His head and his smile tilted in the same direction.

"There you are: the two most beautiful girls in the world."

Shelagh smiled and did not protest; today she did feel like the most beautiful girl in the world, and the most blessed. When Patrick reached her side and slid his arms about her waist Shelagh turned her cheek in his direction. He laid the lightest of kisses there and rested his forehead on hers.

"Happy Christmas, Shelagh."

She lifted her chin slightly and kissed him. "Happy Christmas, Patrick."

For a moment they stood there, forehead to forehead. Exactly a year ago they had been at Timothy's side in the polio ward of the hospital, attempting to create a jolly Christmas from a terrible turn of events. He was conscious and breathing on his own but desperately fatigued. The few presents they brought him had lain unopened at the foot of his bed until late in the day, and Patrick and Shelagh had opted leave their own gifts at home until Timothy could share in opening them. That had taken several weeks, and by the time Patrick received the jumper Shelagh had purchased for him Spring had sprung and he had no need for it. Shelagh had delighted in the brooch Patrick gave her, though, and that had been enough to gloss over the disappointing Christmas memories.

The what-should-have-beens that she was always reminding Patrick to disregard began flooding Shelagh's mind once more. How different would their lives be now if Timothy hadn't become ill last year, if they had married on Christmas Eve and forgone their honeymoon so they could celebrate Christmas with him? Though he would not have had to endure the illness, Shelagh doubted she and Timothy would share the bond they'd developed back when she kept constant vigil at his bedside and gave him lessons at home afterward. Consequently, she and Patrick may not have grown as close as they now were without that emotional catastrophe. Would the timeline of this year have changed, as well? Would she have found out sooner about her infertility, and would they still be holding Angela between them now, if everything had gone as originally planned? They were thoughts she allowed herself occasionally, but this morning, surrounded by so much simple love and perfection, Shelagh was overcome with wondering.

Her answer came as if whispered by God. No. This and everything that came before was exactly what should have been. All the heartache and all the joys of their life together were perfect.

"Perfect," Shelagh murmured quite by accident.

Patrick's breathy laughter hit her chin as he said, "No, you're perfect. And this is going to be a perfect Christmas. Although," he leaned away and eyed her with a playful frown. "I didn't get to unwrap my present this morning."

Even with Angela between them Patrick dared to tickle her seductively and she knew he was not referring to one of the gifts under the tree.

Shelagh giggled. "I should think you'd have gotten your fill of unwrapping last night," she said.

"Oh, you know me better than that, darling." His thumbs were sliding along the neckline of the nightgown she wore beneath the robe and she let them linger for a moment before wedging the baby between them and into his arms.

"Happy Christmas, Daddy," Shelagh whispered as she watched his eyes twinkle when he took Angela.

"Happy Christmas, baby," he cooed. Angela's eyes widened in vague recognition of her father and he made a ridiculous face attempting to coax a smile from her. When her mouth twitched he laughed and dropped a kiss on her rosy lips. "You, Miss Turner, are entirely too kissable." Shelagh laughed until he leaned toward her. "Just like your mummy."

Shelagh returned the kiss he gave her with quiet zeal. The emotions of the moment overwhelmed her – the two of them, a year after they were once intended to be married, holding their infant daughter between them and ready to celebrate their first real Christmas together – and she wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing the baby gently between their chests. She continued to kiss him, completely undaunted by the sudden thunder of footsteps above them that traveled down the stairs and into the room.

"Merry Chri- Oh no, are you two at it again? Can't you save it for the mistletoe?" Timothy's exasperation tore them apart and they laughed.

Patrick took Angela's tiny hand and waved it in her brother's direction. "Happy Christmas, Timmy!" he chimed in a faux baby voice.

Timothy came to touch Angela's head, tickled her feet and kissed her cheek. "Happy Christmas, Angie. Thanks for not waking me up too early." Shelagh watched his eyes scurry to the stack of gifts on the floor and then to her own eyes. "Happy Christmas, Mum," he smiled. When she grinned back at him he crossed to her and hugged her fiercely and placed a short kiss on her cheek before he stepped away and glanced at the tree again.

"Oh, that doesn't seem fair," Patrick cried petulantly. "Not even a 'good morning' for your old dad but Mum and Angie both get kisses?"

Timothy rolled his eyes and said, "Dad, I've had loads of Christmases with you, but it's the first time with them."

Shelagh laughed when Patrick shrugged dramatically. "That's not an entirely satisfactory reason, but it'll have to do. So, are you going to open your gifts, Tim? Or should we give them all to your sister?"

"No!" Timothy shouted and fell to his knees, snatching the first thing he saw with his name on it.

Two hours later the floor of the room was buried under torn wrapping paper and Christmas gifts. They had all eaten an enormous breakfast and were still in their pajamas and dressing gowns. Timothy was wearing a paper crown and was thrilled with everything he received, including a cricket bat and new slides for his microscope. There were airplanes and building toys and items of clothing strewn around the room, but for once the mess did not bother Shelagh. She was content to watch her family delight in the magic of Christmas. Patrick was rocking Angela but trying to be part of Timothy's activity too, interjecting as the boy attempted a complicated new model. The baby was asleep on his shoulder from the morning's hustle and bustle.

Shelagh walked across the room and placed a hand on Patrick's shoulder. When he looked up he saw her wide smile and winked at her. "I can take her upstairs, if you want to play with airplanes, Dad," she offered.

Patrick's examined her quietly before narrowing his eyes with a crooked smile. She could see he was hiding something. Or remembering something.

"Actually, I think I'll help you," he said as he rose from the floor, careful not to disturb the sleeping baby. "I'll be right back, Tim, I'm going to help Mum put Angela to bed. See if you can find where that propeller goes, I'm sure the instructions must be wrong."

Timothy looked at Shelagh. "That's why he can never finish a model without my help. He doesn't believe in instructions."

His parents laughed as they made their way through the hall and up the stairs. Shelagh didn't know what Patrick had planned – the glint she'd just seen in his eye told her this was anything but a helpful trip to send Angela to bed – but she was glad he was coming. She had one last gift to give him that she had not put under the tree, instead carefully hiding the box under some old jumpers on her side of their wardrobe. The plan was to give it to him later, but when she thought about his reaction – and his guaranteed agony for the rest of the day – Shelagh revised her strategy.

"Wait here," Patrick whispered when they stood in front of their bedroom. "I have something for you." He winked at her again and walked to Angela's room.

Shelagh went into their bedroom, slightly perplexed. She thought she would be the one surprising him with a secret Christmas gift, but was fooled in her own game. When she went to the wardrobe to extract the box for Patrick, Shelagh heard the familiar squeak of the hall cupboard and the soft fa-flump of linens falling to the floor.

"Ruddy cupboard," Patrick muttered, and Shelagh could clearly picture him stooping to pick up the sheets and stuffing them into the cupboard without bothering to fold them.

When he came into their bedroom Shelagh was sitting on the end of the bed waiting, a red-papered parcel sitting on her lap.

"You little sneak!" Patrick laughed, jiggling the box in his own hand. "I thought you were done with Christmas gifts for the day!"

Shelagh pursed her lips. "I thought you were done with gifts for the day. Honestly, Patrick, there's nothing else I need, you shouldn't spoil me so."

"I'm only returning the favor, Shelagh," he laughed as he sat beside her on the bed. Clearly she had thwarted whatever surprise he had planned, but she loved him for trying anyway and kissed his cheek to tell him so. The peck was not enough for Patrick, however, and she was soon caught up in his arms and they rolled backwards onto the bed, both the packages sliding from their laps and landing on the floor. This was what she had been hoping for, Shelagh admitted to herself: being in Patrick's arms was the only other gift she wanted today, and he was not disappointing her. They were quiet so they would not disturb the children, but Shelagh found it increasingly difficult to stay silent when he was kissing her neck like that and his hand was gripping her hip so firmly. Her own hands slid to his waist and untied his dressing gown so they could slide under his shirt and feel his chest and sides. She was content to let him kiss her like this for the remainder of the morning, lying side-by-side, lost in their love for each other and promising everything to each other with every touch. But even the way his unshaven face was scratching her lips and the way his tongue was plundering her mouth and the way his fingers scalded the skin of her thighs – even those things were not enough to distract her from Timothy being downstairs and wanting to play with his father on Christmas morning. Best to stop now before they went any further and he came looking for them.

The bed squeaked as Shelagh broke contact with him and sat up again. Patrick remained on his side until he removed his hand from the inside of her dressing gown where it still rested. When he sat up he returned her glasses to her face – when had those come off? – and sighed painfully.

Shelagh leaned down and retrieved the red box from the floor and set it on his lap. "This is for you. From me."

Patrick grinned and followed suit, handing her the package he had wrapped and tied with a ribbon. "And this is for you, my dear. To make up for last Christmas. And… everything." Shelagh watched him look down bashfully and toy with the corner of the box in his hands. How desperately she loved this man, she thought.

"You go first." Patrick suggested with a wink. Shelagh nodded. This was exactly what she wanted, knowing how her gift to him would make him laugh and embrace her. As Patrick watched she tore back the paper and slid a hand beneath the lid before setting it aside. She lifted the white tissue paper from the box and stopped suddenly when her eyes took in the blue stripes of a new pajama shirt like the one that had been ruined a few short months ago.

"Patrick!" she cried, completely dumbfounded.

He threw his head back and laughed at her reaction. She loved his laugh, and this morning the hair on his forehead bounced and the scruffy beginnings of a beard that appeared overnight made him look so happy and comfortable. Oh, how she loved him.

"I had to place a special order. It's been a year, after all. They didn't have the same pattern anymore," he explained proudly.

Shelagh held the shirt up to her front and felt the familiar fabric. His eyes overwhelmed her and she saw devotion in all his features. With the shirt still draped over her, Shelagh launched herself into his arms and kissed him. She felt the sharp edge of his unopened gift cut into her ribcage but ignored it. She needed desperately to tell him how perfect he was and how in tune they were, and the only proper way was to kiss him. Patrick accepted her gratitude with his own fervor, laughing as she tickled him with tiny pecks all over his face, trailing thanks down his forehead and nose and chin. She could feel the muscles of his smile and taste his unshaven skin on her lips. Her arms were wrapped around his neck so that when she sat back the ridiculous shirt laid on his torso, like her embrace had forced its mark on him.

"Now," Shelagh grinned, "it's your turn."

Patrick's eyes narrowed and his smile slanted in the way she knew and loved. "Are you sure you're finished thanking me? I can wait."

"Quite sure," Shelagh laughed, touching the box in his hands impatiently. "Your turn."

He followed the same routine she had and crumpled the torn paper eagerly in his hands. As he unwrapped it he kept glancing at Shelagh, and she held her breath in anticipation. When he lifted the lid from the box Patrick froze. Then he snapped his head up and stared at her with wide eyes.

"Shelagh!" he howled, extracting a pajama shirt identical to the one she had just received and holding it in front of his face in bewilderment. "Shelagh, you sorceress! How – where did you find it? I never told you where I bought it!"

She smiled smugly and folded her legs beneath her on the bed. "There are some advantages to taking over the family bookkeeping, dear. I found the sales slip months ago and kept it in case I ever needed to find another. Whenever did you find the time to go to Harrods, Patrick?"

Patrick's surprise was plainly heard in the great sounds of his laughter as he fiercely pulled her into his arms. "You are a wonder, my perfect, perfect wife." He sank his face into her neck and she grasped him back, doubting she could ever love him more but knowing that she would. She loved the way his teeth nipped at her earlobe and the sound of his huffing breath in her ear. She loved his hands and his shoulders and his neck, loved the way he could touch her in any way and make her feel more beautiful than ever before. She loved the way he loved her, completely and unrelentingly, like she was the only thing in his life that mattered. Shelagh let him kiss her for as long as he wanted, until at last his head separated from hers and her eyes fluttered open. He was staring at her so fiercely that she felt a blush creep to her cheeks and buried her face in his dressing gown.

"Shelagh," he whispered. She could hear the emotion in just the single word. What bliss it was to be able to hear it as she had once imagined, and be blessed with the honor of hearing it for the rest of her life.

"Shelagh," he repeated, shifting her away from his chest so she could look him in the eye. "You're the most wonderful gift I've ever been given. I could live the rest of my life without a single thing if I have you."

"You have me, Patrick, you'll always have me," she said, tears forcing their way into her eyes and blurring his face.

He put his forehead to hers as he had earlier that morning. The silence that surrounded them spoke of everything that needed to be said and ever had been said. It sang to them of stolen glances and stolen kisses, of heartache and waiting and wanting. It reminded them of letters and views from windows and mist and right roads. It blanketed them in comfort of healed wounds and forgiveness and the blessing of family. The silence spoke of everything: their past, present, and future. As Shelagh felt happy tears travel down her cheeks, she couldn't be more certain that Patrick was right: their life together was the greatest gift that they could ever be given.