George Russell 8x Race Winner Apologist

she was born in scotland to irish immigrants and became a maths teacher, fighter for women's suffrage, and a sharpshooter. she was very invested in the cause of irish independence, and joined branches of irish republican clubs in scotland when she was around twenty years old.

margaret visited dublin a few times and became especially close with revolutionary leader and later politician constance markievicz, with who she secretly tested dynamite for example.

when she heard that the easter rising was about to kick off in dublin in april 1916, she took a ferry over to dublin to see that very friend and mentor and later second in command, constance markievicz, and pledged her life to the cause of freeing ireland from the shackles of english oppression. irish independence after all might mean something for future scottish independence, and the proclamation of the free republic of ireland saw men and women as equals, and it was a family matter since her parents had come from ireland originally.

one thing that's important to know about margaret is that she frequently switched between her dresses when she wanted to be inconspicuous, and her irish citizen army men's uniform or men's clothes generally, and that she fit in with the men and saw herself as one of the brothers in arms, and she was incredibly proud of that. so, here's a photo with margaret in the middle:

in dublin, preparing for the easter rising, margaret smuggled dynamite and detonators and weapons, and as mentioned helped build bombs as well as helped test them. being a maths teacher, she was also asked to study and draw maps of her own of the city to help figure out future strategies of the irish citizen army against the british soldiers, and in the process she figured out how exactly the british soldiers' baracks might best be destroyed, using one of her preferred things in the world (dynamite). other than that she was dispatch carrying, and organising strategies, and generally being iconic.

when the rising took place during the easter week, margaret was under direct command of michael mallin and her mentor constance markievicz who were able to hold stephen's green in the city centre for a while. she was mostly there as a sniper, since she was a very good shot since her time back in a rifle club in scotland.

the issue (one of several in the easter rising) was that the british had snipers placed on the roof of the nearby shelbourne hotel who margaret really wanted to take out, so she got permission to build and throw a bomb with an eight second fuse through one of the hotel windows to get rid of the british snipers and then escape on her bicycle since she had studied the maps of the area. (first in command mallin was initially against it because she was a woman, but she argued that because it said men and women are equal in the proclamation of the irish republic, she had as much right to die for the cause as any man, and then mallin was like "ok ok relax you can do it".)

the problem was just that she went on a sidequest on her bicycle with a rifle to cut off the retreat of the british soldiers at harcourt street before she actually threw that bomb into the hotel. she got shot three times before she could bomb those british snipers off the hotel roof. (in her memoirs, she describes the fact that she was too critically injured to bomb the hotel as one of the worst things that ever happened to her, that it hurt her even more than the bullet wounds they had to operate out of her, and I think she just never got over it ever. neither would I to be fair.)

after the easter rising she remained dedicated to the struggle for irish independence, and remained in dublin all her life where she lived with her girlfriend until they both passed away after many many years <3

Phone calls at any hour of the day had become his expectation throughout the prior few years, the name of the Agency well worn into his phone. Any time another school-age kid came into the system in need of a safe place to stay, a temporary residence while they dealt with the courts, broken families, or awaiting adoption, he was high on their list of contacts. 

Day or night, he had received calls from the Agency with a newly arrived kid in mind, one that they thought would be a good fit for George. Some stayed with him for a few days, a few weeks, and some even stayed a few months; staying in his comfortable five-bedroom home on his spacious acreage and giving him a good and ethical reason to spend his more-than-comfortable earnings from his prosperous Formula 1 career. George had always just wanted to do good. To give back in any way he could, to make a difference. Generous nameless donations to charities were one thing, but it didn’t feel personal enough. Not like fostering had.

For seven years he had been the safe space for almost thirteen kids between the ages of six and twelve, opening his home to those who needed him without judgement or an air of righteousness. It felt like it had changed him in all the hardest but most incredible ways, helping kids at the lowest of lows to feel loved, cared for, and like they mattered…to make a difference in their lives even if it was just for a day or two. Formula 1 had shown him every corner of the world and yet nothing felt as important and raw than his experience in fostering. It was incomparable. 

And so when his phone rang that Tuesday night in August, when he was freshly out of the shower and half-ready for bed, he wasn’t startled. 

Rinsing his toothbrush under the tap, George lifted his phone to his ear with an easy, “Hi, Violet.”

The lady who had called—Violet—was the wonderful placement coordinator he had been working with since his first days with the Agency and they already had quite the rapport and had grown quite accustomed to liaising together through various phone calls. This night, however, there was something in her voice that felt a bit more weighted, a bit more formal, than he was used to hearing, “Good evening, George. Sorry to call so late.”

His toothbrush was dropped back into its cup with a dull clink and he shut off the tap, “No worries. You know I never mind. Is everything okay? Is there another case?”

“Well, sort of,” Violet said gently, “We had someone surrender a baby tonight at our safe-haven drop-off and we’re looking for someone to take her as soon as possible. She’s been medically cleared and is about a week old, she just needs a home, the poor thing.”

“A newborn?” George shut off the ensuite light as he walked back into his bedroom, “For me? Are you sure? I’ve only ever fostered school-age kids.”

“That’s the thing, George. This wouldn’t be a fostering. We wanted to reach out and ask if you might be interested in adopting her.”

He went so quiet through the phone that one might have heard a pin drop. He sat down on the side of his bed at the impact of her soft-spoken words as if they had struck him. Sure, he had fostered plenty of kids, loved to help offer them refuge and safe space where he could, but never had he anticipated adopting. As a single person, the permanence of it frightened him.

Finally, he replied with an echoed and almost disbelieving, “Adopting?”

“I know you expressed that you were only interested in fostering and the school-age group but you have been a wonderful and trustworthy figure in our books, George,” Violet went on, her voice earnest and yet not pleading, only delivering him the truth in that soft spoken and kind way she always did, “You are so caring and gentle with every kid that has walked through your door and your experience has proven that you have a strong understanding of routine and attachment, and you’ve shone through the few long-term stays you’ve housed. And you are financially comfortable with a safe and loving home. You were the first person we thought of when this baby was dropped off to us tonight. All of us here at the Agency thought so.”

“Violet, I…I don’t know,” George sighed. He raked a hand through his damp hair and hardly flinched when his fingers tugged at the strands. 

Ever the professional social worker, she was right there with the reassurance, “I don’t want to pressure you; this is a big decision you need to make on your own accord.”

“Yeah…” George licked his lips, “Can I take tonight to think about it?”

“Of course. We’ll keep her here for tonight. Call whenever you need, or you can drop by in the morning to meet her first. Whatever you want, George, okay? It’s your call.”

When they hung up, George spent a long while just sitting there on the side of his bed in only his towel and staring at the wall. Violet’s proposition swirled around his mind like a hurricane of indecision, the life of a baby balancing in whatever answer he would eventually settle on. A baby. A week old baby could be his. That prospect filled him with nothing but self doubt. 

What did he know about babies? Well, enough to babysit his nieces and nephews on and off when they were little just to give his brother or sister a break. But that was uncle duty and everyone always said that parenting was incomparable. There would be no ‘giving the baby back’ when it cried too loudly or refused to eat for him or spit up on his shirt. In fact, there wouldn’t be anyone to pass the baby off to for even a breather because he’d be doing it all alone. Desperately single in love, he would be single in parenthood too…right off the bat. 

Somehow, George had gotten himself dressed into old lounge pants and a t-shirt and was standing, arms crossed, in the spacious guest bedroom at the other end of the second floor hallway. That bedroom had seen its fair share of kids over the years; modestly designed to be comforting and homey and a place where a kid wouldn’t feel like a guest but, rather, as a part of something. It did its job well, sure, but not for a baby. None of the furniture in that room made any sense for a baby…not to mention the toys that filled the chest beneath the window. 

Suddenly, he was very aware of how not baby ready his house was. He had only ever taken in school-age kids before—his cupboards weren’t locked, there was no gate on the stairs, his guest room held furniture that was not at all meant for babies. He’d need a crib, a change table, formula, proper toys, a rocking chair, so many diapers. Oh, he was wildly unprepared. That had to be an answer alone, right? He had nothing ready—that was a sign, it had to be—he would have to call Violet back and politely decline. 

But then he seemed to have only blinked and he was in his car at nearly nine at night, pulling into the half-vacant parking lot of his closest IKEA. It was so close to store closing but he talked the ear off of an underpaid employee, spilling his mental shopping list he made on the drive over, desperate for any sort of guidance. He ended up driving back home in a daze with only the absolute necessities crammed in the back of his G63; a crib kit and a change table kit. 

What was he doing?

That was the question that he muttered under his breath to himself as he sat on the floor of one of the vacant bedrooms in his spacious home, surrounded by wood and screws and metal supports and an IKEA instruction manual that was more trouble than help. Perhaps he was more so distracted by the whirlwind of thoughts and seemingly ever ending pros and cons list that he muttered to himself the entire time he was navigating the instructions. Yet, his hands seemed to be working by a power of their own will, like they knew what they had to do before his brain caught up, fastening bolts and screws and assembling just so. 

By one o’clock in the morning, he had an assembled crib and matching change table in the once empty room. Standing there with callused hands on his hips, heart racing, the realization of what he did settled over him. He just bought and assembled a crib…all of his own free will. There were layers beneath that realisation that unfolded before him, that despite his uncertainty and his self-doubt he had still subconsciously wanted to have the necessities ready. Just in case. Just in case he adopted a baby in less than twelve hours. 

Oh, God, he was going to need a carseat. 

George didn’t sleep at all that night. Even after hours spent assembling furniture and the endless mental back-and-forth—whether he wanted to adopt this baby or whether he should pass on the opportunity—he lay awake, his mind buzzing like TV static.

It didn’t take long for him to realize there was no right or wrong answer. Maybe, for once in his life, instead of listening to his brain, he would have to listen to his heart. But what, exactly, was his heart trying to tell him?

Lying there with the first hints of morning light slipping through the narrow gap in his curtains, alone in his too-nice, too-quiet house, the answer finally surfaced. He wanted to meet the baby. Just once. To see how it felt when he was face to face with the decision itself. There was no harm in that.

Exhausted from the sleepless night, George pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans and headed for the Agency. Despite the early hour, he stopped at a store along the way to pick up a top of the line carseat (and had one of the employees fit it properly into the backseat of his car). 

It was strange, sitting outside the Agency he had frequented so often in the last seven years with a newborn carseat in the back. He always felt a little nervous every time he picked up a new foster kid—they were all so different and came from unique circumstances—but this was light-years removed from anything he’d known before. This wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t a child who would one day pack up their things and leave.

George rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared at the building, suddenly aware of how still he was, of every careful breath he took. He thought about the life he’d built after his retirement from Formula 1—solid, predictable, deliberately steady—and how easily one small person could tilt it on its axis. A baby. 

He wasn’t afraid of the baby. That fact surprised him most. What unsettled him was the permanence of it all. The way a single yes could redraw the shape of his future without offering him a glimpse of what it would look like once the lines were set. There was no right answer, no nine months of preparation and familiarizing oneself with this upcoming change. This would be overnight, immediate. Everything would change in a snap of his fingers. 

The thought didn’t scare him as much as it should have.

Tapping his thumbs restlessly against the steering wheel, George glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes catching on the empty car seat. Brand new. Waiting. The sight of it made something low and steady settle in his chest—not certainty, not yet—but resolve. Or maybe hope, carefully held at arm’s length. Waiting. 

After a long moment, he shut off the engine.

Violet greeted him in the reception with a brief but friendly hug before leading him into her office. He had gone through these steps many times before, taken his seat in the worn upholstered chair at her desk under the framed degrees hung on her wall between motivational quotes, but the air felt heavier now. The anticipation felt more charged. 

“It’s really nice you wanted to come down, George,” Violet smiled warmly at him from the other side of that desk in her genuine yet practiced way she always did. 

Rubbing his palms together between his knees, shoulders uncharacteristically tense, George nodded once, “Yeah, thought it might help to see her first maybe.”

“Of course.”

When Violet went to reach for the file on her desk, George found himself blurting out, “I bought a cot last night.”

Her eyes raised to his. There was something almost close to surprise in her gaze but she did her best to mask it.

“I hardly slept a wink,” he went on, “Ended up building the cot and a change table until one or two. I don’t know. Just thought…in case….I’d need them. Just in case, right?”

His voice tapered off at the end, soft and unsure, yet Violet didn’t flinch. She only nodded, steady and calm, “Right. That’s very smart thinking.”

George nodded too, as though her reassurance had settled something fragile inside him. He watched as she opened the folder.

“I know I told you the brief of it last night on the phone, but we’ll go over her file more in depth now, just so you can better understand her circumstances and gain a better understanding before you make your decision. This is just a conversation, nothing we chat about here will lock you in, alright?”

“Yeah. Alright.” George leaned back in the chair, attempting something that might pass for relaxed. In truth, he looked as stiff as stone, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.

Violet walked him through the medical reports from the tests conducted after the baby was brought in through the safe-haven drop-off. She’d passed everything with flying colours. Feeding well. Healthy bowel movements. Crying no more or less than expected for a newborn. Her biological parents were completely anonymous and unreachable.

At barely a week old, it would be a clean start.

George listened carefully, absorbing every word, doing his best not to let the weight of it all wash over him at once. When she had finally finished, there was a pause, the information settling. 

George shifted, “Can I ask something?”

“Of course,” Violet folded her hands atop the open folder and organized documents.

“What does the next week look like, if I say yes?”

“Well, that’s entirely up to you. If you said yes today, we’d have you sign some documents to hand over all paternal rights to you; similar versions of the forms you sign for fostering but a little different, these ones. Do you have a carseat?”

“Yes, I bought one this morning on my way in. Just in case.”

A small smile pricked the corner of Violet’s mouth but she stayed perfectly professional as she continued, “Lovely. Then you’d take her home. We’d provide you with a few necessities to get your started—formula, bottles, nappies, wipes. And then the rest is really up to you. It’ll be a huge adjustment period but we know you’re quickly adaptable; you’ve handled a lot of different kids in the foster system…some quite difficult ones. Although a newborn is different, she’ll require the same levelheadedness and patience we know you have.”

“And if I have questions?”

“You have my number.”

“What if it’s late?”

“Even still then.”

George let out a tense sigh and gripped the armrests of the chair as if grounded himself physically would help settle his swirling mind. It was just one of those things you could try to prepare for but you’d never be prepared until you were thrown right in the deep end. 

After a brief moment, Violet spoke once more, “Would you like to meet her?”

The Agency had a small nursery on site, protected behind the keycard locked double doors manned by a twenty-four hour front desk guard. Of course. They were the United Kingdom’s top fostering and adoption agency; internationally regarded. No chances were taken, no corners cut. Their professionalism was what drove George to inquire with them initially all those years ago when he knew nothing outside of racing and just thought it would be cool to try to make a difference. To put his money to better use than designer cars and luxury vacations. Now, he was about to put his heart on the line too. 

In only a blink, Violet had led him into the small room across the hall that he had frequented a few times over the years. It was where he would first meet the foster kids, giving them some time to talk or play together with the provided toys so the kids wouldn’t feel like they were going home with a total stranger. Perhaps this was no different. Sure, the baby was barely a week old, but they still had to get acquainted. 

He waited there, alone, while Violet went to get the baby from the nursery, leg bouncing restlessly as he sat in the all too familiar visitor chair, hands wringing together. His mind seemed to be a tempest of every thought at the same time and, yet, nothing at all. 

Before he knew it, the door was opening again and in floated Violet with a tiny little fussy bundle in her arms. George sprung to his feet but then suddenly felt as though he had suddenly been rooted to the spot, left staring dumbly at her as she closed the door behind her. For years he had pushed himself and his body to the edge of what humans were capable of, showing himself as fearless as one of the top drivers in the world, a force to be reckoned with. Yet, here he was, frozen in place over the concept of laying sight on an unnamed baby whose future rested in his hands.

“Here she is,” Violet said ever so softly, carefully moving closer so George could get his first glimpse. 

The first thought that came forward through the static of George’s mind when he first laid eyes on the newborn, was who would ever dream of giving her up?

She was the sweetest thing he had ever seen with rosy round cheeks and a tiny button nose, snuggled under a thin hat and swaddled tight. He wasn’t immune to the powers of an adorable baby and yet there was something about this one, about these circumstances, about the weight of this moment, that had him nearly swooning. He didn’t even hesitate when Violet offered her out, holding out his arms to accept the snoozing baby with practiced ease. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” George whispered in near awe to the baby now tucked perfectly in the crook of his arm like she was meant to be there. 

She was a healthy eight pounds—as mentioned in Violet’s spiel of information—and felt so right and so real in his arms, even as she squirmed to get comfy. Her tiny mouth opened in a big yawn, eyes scrunching shut, and her little pouted lips smacked dreamily. George swore his heart sang. 

He spoke to Violet without taking his eyes off of the baby, “What’s her name?”

She answered him with soft patience, “She doesn’t have a name. Her crib card just says ‘Jane Doe’ for now. You would be able to name her whatever you wish.”

It would be a high-pressure honour.

In all honesty, George hardly took his eyes off the baby even when Violet brought him a bottle of formula to feed her with, getting him arranged in the chair in the corner of the room with the swaddled newborn still tucked comfily in his arms. She then left them alone to have their moment of peace together, to feel if this was a good fit, if it felt right for George. 

He just couldn’t stop staring at her, watching the way her little lips wrapped around the nipple of the bottle as she suckled, her soft lashes resting atop her chubby cheeks, and just hearing the little content grunts and sighs she made so naturally. George was careful not to jostle her too much, keeping the bottle in place so as to not disturb her feed while his other hand cautiously unfastened the snug blanket around her so he could get a proper look at her. 

Oh she was so tiny and precious, tucked perfectly in the simple white onesie, little limbs flailing and stretching once released from the swaddle. She let out another little mewl behind the bottle and when George pressed his pinky against her tiny fingers, she held onto him like she never wanted to let go. 

“Hi there,” George cooed in a whisper, giving his pinky a little wiggle so she could feel him there, with her, “You’ve had a crazy first week of life, haven't you?”

Of course, she didn’t reply, but he found talking to her to be almost cathartic. So, he let himself ramble to her in that same gentle whisper, letting her get used to his voice and so they could get a little more familiar with one another. The big decision still had to be made, after all. 

“Do you want to come home with me?” George asked softly as if she could be his voice of reason, his deciding vote, “Everyone seems to think we’d be a good pair, you and me. What do you think, hm? You’d have your own room…lots of land to run and play on…I know my family would love you just like you’re our own. You would be mine. And I’d be yours. Like a little team. Right?”

He played with her tiny fingers gently, tracing the small shape of her hand with his, all while he continued to feed her.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confessed in a breath, “I don’t want to let you down. I don’t want to take you home and you end up unhappy or…or you grow up to resent me or something. I want to be what you deserve. I want to give you the life you deserve. I just want to be good for you and I don’t even know what that looks like. So…you might have to be patient with me, if that’s the case.”

As he spoke to her, he didn’t seem to realize that his words started to blend into phrases that seemed to lean more towards saying yes, to wanting to give this a chance. He spoke to her in affirmatives, in future tenses, of things to come. Maybe speaking it all out loud settled his own nerves, feeling more assured by the weight of her in his arms or just completely entranced by her cherubic face. 

When she finished feeding, he moved her like he was on auto-pilot—actions practiced from years of babysitting his nieces and nephews—sitting her up on his lap with her chin and head supported in one hand while his other instinctively started to pat her back to burp her. He hardly noticed what he was doing as he spoke to her in a sigh, “God, I don’t even know what to name you. What should your name be?”

George didn’t quite realize just how attached he had grown to the newborn in such a short time, how ready he truly felt deep down, until Violet returned to check on him and she went to take her from him. His words came out hurried, asking to hold her longer, as if he were scared of someone taking her away from him. It was then that he realized that perhaps he was more scared of letting her go than taking this chance. 

And so George signed the adoption papers at noon. With a few swipes of a pen to paper, he was a father. In only sixteen hours, his life had completely changed. 

The baby didn’t have a name when he brought her home. George seemed to linger on that fact the entire drive, two hands clutching the steering wheel, driving slower than he ever had in his life, all while his unnamed daughter slept soundly in her carseat in the backseat. It all felt like a good idea that morning and into the early hours of that afternoon, having grown so attached to her sweet face and gentle demeanor as they spent some time together at the Agency. Even in the car, despite how his mind desperately tried to think up a name for her that didn’t sound too unappealing, he was generally at peace. 

She started crying the moment the car was parked in the driveway, little fusses and sniffles from the backseat turning into loud wails when he carefully wriggled the carseat free from its secured base. With the baby in one hand and his bag of supplies the agency provided him with in the other, he closed the car door with his hip and started up the front walk to the porch, rocking her gently. 

“Shh, it’s okay, we’re home,” George cooed to her, struggling to hold the baby carrier handle over his arm as he fumbled with his keys, “We’re home.”

Everything inside was exactly how he had left it…exactly how it had looked back when he was living as just George; the shoes lined up by the door, the dishes in the sink, the trophies displayed proudly in the office. Now, suddenly, he was George and a baby. George and a baby and a house that didn’t quite reflect that. And, God, she needed a name. It felt almost unnatural and improper to not give her a name. 

He set the carrier on the coffee table in the lounge and bent down to carefully unbuckle her, fingers working cautiously even as she squirmed and flailed and cried. She was so tiny in his hands when he picked her up, so light and fragile, and he brought her close to his chest with gentle hushes. With her snuggled up in one arm, his other gently patted her bum to try and soothe her while he mentally went through a checklist of what she might need that was making her fussy. 

She wasn’t hungry because he had just fed her at the Agency…she didn’t smell like she needed a change…she slept well so she wasn’t tired. George paced back and forth in his living room and gently rocked her in his arms, patting her bum, and shushing her quietly. Maybe she was scared? She had been taken by a man she hardly knew to a place unrecognizable to her in all her week of life, all without her consent. He would be frightened too!

“I know, I know,” he whispered to her as he paced, “You’ve been passed around a lot this week, haven’t you? No more of that, okay? I promise. This is your home now.”

It broke his heart to hear her cry like that, staring down at how her sweet face was scrunched up and rosy pink with displeasure, tiny hands bunched into fussy fists by her face. George reached his hand in to gently pry her hands away from her face and he wriggled his pinky into one of her fists so, instead, her fingers could wrap around his one. It was a start but she still cried, shrill and repetitive and sorrowful. 

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” George cooed, bouncing her a little in his arms as he sauntered out of the living room and down the hallway. 

In his mind, perhaps a little tour of her new home would help to settle her; the pace of him walking, allowing her to get familiar with him and his voice and with the home they now shared. He showed her every room and talked to her the whole time, even as she cried right through it. He had no idea what he was doing—frankly, he felt a little ridiculous—but he kept at it, even if it felt like he was playing one horrible guessing game. This was going to be the first day of the rest of their lives…hopefully it would just get easier from here. 

By the time they returned to the living room from their extensive house tour, the baby had quieted a little but she was still fussy, almost as if she had started to wear herself out. Or, maybe, she was growing more comfortable—George’s inexperienced and desperately hopeful mind offered. 

So, he finished their tour with the photographs in the living room, the framed ones he had always meant to hang up on the wall but never got around to it, that were, instead, resting at the base of the wall in the corner and gathering dust. He sat there, on the living room floor, with this newborn baby in his arms that was now his and showed her all the photographs.

“This is my mum and dad…” he introduced the first photograph to her, holding it up in its frame so she could see it—well, see it in the way a fussy days-old baby could. 

For a moment, he just sat there and stared at the picture in his hand, the smiling faces of his parents captured some time during his childhood, the two most important people of his life who didn’t even know they just got another grandchild. Sure, they had plenty between his brother and sister, but they always were in George’s ear to ask and lightly tease when he was next. When was he going to settle down? When was he going to have kids of his own? He always thought the concept of it all wasn’t in the cards for him, that after such an illustrious career he couldn’t quite trust that women would want him for the right reasons, not enough to share a life with them and bring a child into the world. 

Now, suddenly, he seemed to have skipped ahead a few steps. He had always loved kids, loved to foster kids and make a difference in their lives, but having one of his own always felt out of the question. Until, suddenly, it wasn’t. 

The concept tasted unfamiliar on George’s tongue; even more so when he corrected his introduction, instead, with a testing, “This is your nanny and granddad.”

He let the words settle for a moment as he glanced down at the squirmy newborn in his arm, still fussing and crying. It was only then that he realized he hadn’t introduced himself to her yet. All this talking and he hadn’t even properly said hello. Well, that certainly didn’t seem right. 

George sat back against the living room wall, his socked feet flat on the floor, knees brought up just enough to have the baby resting against his thighs so they could look at each other. Her little legs barely stretched halfway past his stomach. She was so tiny. He couldn’t remember the last time he held a baby that small…it had been a while since his last niece was born. But he held her steady like it was almost instinctual; hands framing her body with her arms held in place by his gentle thumbs, her fingers gently rubbing her tummy.

And then he took a breath and spoke to her in words so soft he hardly recognized his own voice, “And I’m your daddy.”

She didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, little legs flailing across his abdomen as she fussed. When he reached a finger up to stroke across her chubby cheek, she turned and took it in her mouth, suckling on it right away to soothe herself. 

“Good girl…” he whispered, his racing heart easing as she quieted, “We’re going to get on just fine, aren’t we?”

From their spot on the living room floor, he swore he could have stared at her for hours, just like that, taking in every inch of her perfect little face and tiny body. She was an angel. 

George gave her tummy a little rub with his fingertips as he confessed softly, “I’ve always wanted a daughter, d’you know that? I never thought I’d have one of my own but here you are. Just gotta think of a name for you, hm?”

She let out a little mewl as she sucked on the tip of his finger, grabby and exploratory hands wrapping around his much larger one. The smile that came to his face was all too easy, absolutely swooning over the precious little girl that was now all his. It wasn’t going to be an easy road, but he knew in his heart (and his mind) that this decision felt right. 

George looked back at the framed photograph of his parents that rested on the floor beside them. He would have to call and tell them the news later that day; a bit of anticipation that was both nerve wracking and exciting all at the same time. As he stared at the picture of his parents in the garden years ago, his attention drifted past their figures to the form of his childhood farmhouse in the background. It was still almost the exact same now; with the colourful flower beds and worn white shutters and the rich green climbing stems of ivy that clung to the stone facade. 

For a moment, George stared at the photograph of the home that he loved so much, the one that stayed constant through every phase of his life, all his formative years and well into adulthood. The ivy still clung to the stone in the image, thick and unruly and impossibly alive, winding its way up the walls as though it had chosen the place and refused to ever let go. Quietly. Persistently. Year after year, it grew—weathering storms, softening the hard edges of the house, making it feel lived in. Loved.

He looked back down at the baby in his arms.

She was small but determined, her fingers curling with surprising strength around his, her mouth still busy, still searching, mewling and cooing with quiet reverence. Something steady bloomed in his chest at the thought of her growing the same way—slowly, stubbornly, finding her way upward no matter what tried to stand in her path. 

The name settled instantly, warm and sure in his chest. It didn’t feel new. It felt familiar. Like something that had been waiting.

He tested it aloud, as soft as a breath, “Ivy.”

She made a quiet sound in response, a sleepy little sigh, and George felt something in him finally click into place. It felt like something close to recognition—as if he hadn’t chosen her name at all, only remembered it. 

“Yeah? You agree?” he whispered, brushing his thumb gently over her belly, “I think Ivy suits you. Miss Ivy Russell. All mine, hm?”

And then he leaned down and sealed it with a soft kiss to her chubby cheek, as this little person so effortlessly grew her way around his heart. 

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