You came to us
like quiet light—
not sudden, not blinding,
but certain.

Twenty-one,
with youth still warm in your hands,
and we—
already a storm of living,
three small hearts,
and one learning how to breathe again.

We did not need saving.
We needed somewhere safe
to unfold.

And you—
you became that place.

Not in grand gestures,
but in the gentle constancy
of staying.

You gathered our scattered pieces
without asking us to be whole.
You held the weight of our days
without making them feel heavy.
You met us in the noise,
and slowly, softly,
we found rhythm there.

We ebb.
We flow.
And you—
you are the steady tide between us.

You light the dark
without asking it to disappear.
You warm the cold
without asking it to change.

You did not rescue me.
You gave me space
to return to myself—
to learn, to adapt,
to mother in a way
that finally felt like truth.

And in that space,
we became something more than surviving.

We became a family.

You are not “step” anything.
No half-measure,
no borrowed name.

You are the centre—
the quiet thread
that holds us when we stretch,
the still point
we return to again and again.

My amaranthine—
unchanging
in a world that asked us to change so much.

You came when we needed you,
and somehow,
you stayed.

And in all the ways that matter most—
you are our world.

And we are yours.

— Frost ❄️