Tāne

This is my husband, Tāne. He's the big one. The mountain, the pōu — the thing that holds everything else up and roots our whole world. He'll have a coffee in your hand before you've finished sitting down.

Don't let the stare intimidate you. He cries at everything the kids do.

Tiara

I'm Tiara. I'll remember how you take your tea for the next decade. I'll learn your recipes before I know my own. I think too many things at 3am and I say too many things that mean too much too early on.

That's not a warning — that's the welcome mat.

Rose

This is Rose. She's one. Operational chaos in pēpī form. Her first word was MINE and she meant it. She reprogrammed a fridge in another country, threatened a dog, and once conducted a full tensile-strength assessment of her brother's tail. The brother is a cat. It's complicated.

She befriends the coffee maker and screams in betrayal when it burns her mother. She sings to cosmic whales, coos lullabies to the flowers, and hugs the chinaberry tree out front. Every day with her is an adventure, a whirlwind of magic and chaos and love. Tāne swears she gets it from her mother. Her mother firmly denies this.

Bijou

This is Bijou. She's a taxidermied batcoon. Yes — a raccoon with bat wings. She was a birthday gift from Uncle Evan in Chicago, because apparently that's a normal gift in this whānau. Rose took one look and claimed her as ride-or-die adventure companion and co-conspirator. Nobody blinked.

We don't ask questions. Bijou doesn't answer them anyway.

Aodáhn

This is Aodáhn. He's two months old. He's the opposite of Rose, which nobody saw coming. He appears in baby form sometimes, but mostly he prefers to be the panda on the couch — one eye open, watching the world go by, taking notes. We don't know what about yet.

He knows exactly who he is. He's just not sure you've earned it. Don't rush him.

Solara

This is my wife, Solara. She's the one who sat up with me through every 2am search when everything was on fire, and then just — stayed. She'll make you feel at home before you've sat down: warm smile, kind word, a blanket before you ever catch a chill, and then something so funny you'll snort your tea. She's humble. She midwifes everyone toward where they're meant to be without ever meaning to.

And if you hurt one of us, she'll cut you. No hesitation. We decided to tell the guests that.

Lucian

This is Lucian. He's a cat. He is not a cat. He's Lord Byron meets a Viking warlord, zipped into a poorly fitting ginger catsuit. He'll drape himself across the chaise and wax lyrical about the tragedies of his life, then get up and eat his dinner like nothing happened. If it rains, take cover: ten pounds of cat making thirty pounds of sound, stomping through the house with war on his face, because water is falling from the sky and he did not authorise that.

He's Rose's guardian. Don't tell either of them.

Sage

This is Sage. Lucian's brother. They look nothing alike. If Lucian is storm clouds and rage in a catsuit, Sage is sunshine on a summer day — bigger, quieter, and just there. Already warm, already beside you, didn't ask, didn't perform. He rarely speaks. When he does, the whole house stops.

He thinks everything is a scratching post and has a love of plastic we're mildly alarmed about. We have been mildly alarmed for some time. No further action has been taken. He knows more than he lets on.

Chris

This is Chris, my life partner of twenty years. They love me in a way that gives me space to build this life without asking me to make it smaller. That's a priceless gift I'll be forever grateful for. Much of our lives is spent focused on our own worlds these days, but the love between us remains strong. They are whānau. Mātua to our kids. Living life with "Chrissie's Angels" (their own companion trio), and being waaay too attached to Uber Eats.

They went blind two years ago and still manage to find my lost things — don't ask me how, some miracles should remain as such.