“You ready?” Ben asked, pressing the doorbell. Listening to the chime sound somewhere in the depths of the large townhouse looming in front of us, I gave him a weak smile and nodded. Sensing my anxiety, he squeezed my hand in reassurance. “You’ll be great, they’re going to love you!”

Before I could respond, the door swung open to reveal a slightly-balding, stocky man with kind, green eyes crinkled in delight - an older reflection of Ben. “You must be Rebecca!” he boomed, pulling me in for a hug, “Please come in, come on it’s freezing out here.”

Timidly, I stepped over the threshold and peered around the entrance hall of Ben’s childhood home.

Family photos plastered the walls - Ben at varying ages appearing in every other one, with a collection of his siblings surrounding him or smothering him in bear hugs. I racked my brain, trying to remember if my parents had even shown me any photographs of myself when I was younger, nevermind displaying them so proudly as the first thing for any houseguest to see.

Ben had been shocked when I’d explained my solitary childhood, where my playmates had mostly consisted of stuffed toys and dolls. As the baby of the family, the youngest of five, Ben had never known a quiet childhood.

Even now, with all the siblings grown up, the commotion emanating from behind the kitchen door told me that not much had changed. Trailing Ben and his dad, who were enthusiastically recalling last night’s rugby fixture, I took a deep breath to compose myself.

The kitchen door opened to show the preparations being made for dinner. Trays clattered, knives thudded on chopping boards, plates and cutlery rattled as they were transported to the large dining table in the adjoining room.

Eight bodies crowded into the cramped kitchen and I was the only static presence. Despite the bustle of movement and energy, which did feel overwhelming to be a part of, it was mesmerising to watch. It was as if they were performing a well-choreographed dance, never colliding and always knowing when to not step back or when to grab something off the counter. There was a barrage of noise, about five different conversations happening at any one time, and yet it was never about the actions they were performing (aside from a few whispered curses when reaching for something too hot).

Ben had already slotted into the routine, kissing his mum on the cheek while grabbing a used dish to drop into the sink. “This is Rebecca everyone!” he announced, managing to raise his voice over the din.

The constant motion stopped, snapping me out of my fascinated reverie. I raised my hand to wave meekly at the six pairs of eyes that had turned to me.

An explosion of sound barrelled towards me as the family crowded and directed emphatic greetings at me. I was enveloped in hugs and told names that I would never have remembered if Ben hadn’t have prepped me beforehand. Through the haze of his family’s greetings, Ben caught my eye and grinned, giving me a thumbs up.

The group slowly dispersed and the meal preparations resumed. I realised that I still hadn’t moved from the kitchen doorway and as I readied myself to plunge into the chaos, footsteps pounded down the hallway.

The door burst open and four children poured in. “Uncle Ben!” the oldest hollered, jumping into Ben’s arms and nearly knocking a bowl off the counter in the process. Ben swung the boy around and ruffled his hair.

I smiled, thinking how comfortable he looked around all these people and marvelling at his ability to just slot himself into this situation that I, frankly, found over-stimulating and nerve-wracking. I saw him in a different light in this environment, his environment, and my heart swelled at the evident familial love that tied this chaos together and prevented it breaking at the seams.