I moved in with him a few months ago, when we decided to take the next step in our relationship. Up until then I’d been living in a room that I’d been renting from an old couple who had a big farm and no family. In exchange for room and board I’d help them with chores, and I became a de facto carer. It’s how I met Will, who was their GP. The cottage belongs to Will – he bought it when he moved here a few years ago – but I’ve come to think of it as mine too, because he has made sure that I feel it’s my home as much as his. There are photos of my parents on the side alongside ones of Will and me, and, though I didn’t have much to bring with me, we chose the new sofa together and I made the curtains.

I finish hanging Will’s stocking, singing ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’.

I am still working for a few people in the valley, as a carer mainly, but also nannying for a GP at the same surgery as Will. At the same time, I’m applying to do a master’s in psychology; Will’s encouraging me to pursue a career as a therapist.

I look at him and smile and notice that he’s still on his knees in front of the fire. And he’s holding something in his hand.

‘Mia,’ he says as my heart starts to race. ‘I love you. Will you marry me?’

My mouth falls open; I blink as he opens the little box and I see the engagement ring inside. I look back at Will, whose expression is halfway between hope and fear.

All I can do is nod.

He stands up. ‘Is that a yes?’ he asks, looking nervous.

‘Yes,’ I finally manage to shriek as Will sweeps me into his arms. ‘Yes.’

We’re both beaming so widely our teeth clash when we kiss. ‘I love you,’ he says again. ‘And I’m always going to love you.’

I laugh contentedly; five minutes ago, I thought that I couldn’t possibly be any happier than I was in that moment, but now I’m realising I was wrong. ‘I love you too,’ I say, my arms looping around his neck.