“Lass,” she began, her voice calm but firm, “there’s things you need to know. About how we do things in this family.” She glanced at Johnny, who nodded, knowing the importance of her words.Johnny shifted beside you, his hand squeezing yours in reassurance.

“When the time comes for birth, it’s not just about you,” Moira continued. “The women gather. We help you, guide you. We ease the pain, comfort you. We’re family. The men stay outside—they wait. They pray and drink, but they don’t enter until the child’s born.”

She paused, letting her words sink in before continuing. “Once the baby’s born, we wrap ‘em in the family tartan. It’s how we claim them—how they’re tied to the land, the ancestors.”

Moira’s gaze softened. “But that’s not all. After the birth, your body needs care. We bind your hips with soft cloth, gently, to help them tighten back up after the strain. It’s to restore you, bring you back to strength.”

You felt Johnny’s hand tighten around yours as Moira’s tone became more reverent. “Then comes the baptism. We take the child to the lake. The water cleanses, welcomes them to the earth. It’s a blessing from the land itself.”

Her eyes met yours, full of understanding. “After all this, the family gathers. We feast, we celebrate. The men come in, hold the baby, and share the joy. It’s how it’s always been. A MacTavish child isn’t just born—they’re welcomed.”

Johnny kissed the top of your head, his voice a soft promise. “We’ll do this together. Just like my ma says—the MacTavish way.”