Oh hey there, I’m Anna Bethany Quick – but my friends call me AB (think Baby without the first B), for short. After singing in clubs and local bars every chance I got through college, I finally listened to the pleas of my roommate and signed up to audition for The Voice. What began as a bit of fun, soon turned into a massive confidence boost as I sailed through the rounds and ended up in the finals. Fingers tingling with excitement and anxiety, the winner was announced and unfortunately, it wasn’t me. I was beat to the punch by a teenage boy, no doubt appealing to the masses of screaming girls at home. Nevertheless, my title of runner up was my open door and I soon signed a record deal with Sony BMG. My music was a pop / indie mix, and when my first album was released, it sold 100,000 copies on the first day. I was floored, and so began my rise through the music ranks. Just after my first album, Sony suggested a bit of a make-over, and I relented reluctantly, happy when the stylist said they’d just enhance what was already there. My new self was thankfully just a slightly more put together version of my old self – my dirty blonde hair was now wavy and tousled, sitting just above my shoulders – side swept bangs hiding my hazel eyes. The first time I debuted my look was at Sony’s Christmas party – that in itself was enough to give me a panic attack. Little did I know who I’d meet that night.

Surrounded by the likes of Kelly Clarkson, Celine Dion, and Queen Bey, I was my usual wallflower self and hid myself in a corner. Right as I devolved into a fangirling mess at the mere sight of Isaac Slade (lead singer for The Fray, need I say more?), I was knocked over from the side. A pair of piercing blue eyes met mine and a hand reached out. I could feel the callouses on his fingers as he pulled me up, and I shook my hair out of my face before nervously introducing myself. “Rory Granger,” he replied. He didn’t have to introduce himself – one look at that shaggy brown hair told me all I needed to know. Rory is Sony’s current wunderkind - he’s like the lovechild of Ed Sheeran, Greg Laswell, and Imogen Heap, with just a dash of Regina Spektor.

“Hiding?” he asked me with a cheeky smile. “Not much of a people person,” I replied. “You could’ve fooled me. That acoustic version of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun was enough to convince me you were a total party animal,” he winked.

He walked away after that, and I picked my jaw up off the floor and dealt with the fact that Rory Granger had seen me perform on the Voice. I left the party soon after, while everybody else was still raging inside. Once home, I climbed into bed and opened Google Chrome, searching for Rory.

Rory Wyatt Granger, born in April the year before me, two albums under his belt, and a fanbase the size of England according to the many posts on Tumblr about him. I spent about thirty minutes staring at pictures of him before convincing myself he was just being nice, and tucking myself into bed. I woke the next morning to my phone ringing, and then a shriek from my publicist.

“RORY GRANGER’S PEOPLE JUST CONTACTED ME FOR YOUR CONTACT INFORMATION,” she shouted down the line. I couldn’t hear her over the churning in my stomach.

We had dinner a week later, in a tiny tapas bar hidden in a somewhat unknown corner of Los Angeles, our home base. One dinner turned into three dinners in a week, and soon that blossomed into daily lunches, a string of Facebook messages to contend with Proust in their longevity, and soon enough, an overnight visit. My favourite Rory was morning Rory – while he was still sleeping he looked far younger than his 26 years. Once he awoke and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he would cook me blueberry pancakes, while I sat on the kitchen counter and traded him strawberries for kisses. His apartment soon was gathering dust and more and more of his stuff was at mine. We made it official a year after we started dating – and finally moved the last of his clothes into my tiny closet. We kept his apartment for our families when they came to visit, but nothing more.

It was February 13th the next year, and I had a gig later in the afternoon. As per usual, Rory was cooking me breakfast – waffles with bacon and maple syrup. He finished cooking and placed a plate in front of me, standing next to me while I was still perched on the counter. I took a bite and rolled my eyes in delight.

“This is amazing. I owe you a million kisses.” “I’m not sure kisses are going to cut it this time, AB,” he replied playfully, pinching my ass. “Well I’m afraid I don’t have anything else to offer you,” I laughed.

With that, he fell to one knee and pulled out a ring. “You could marry me.”

It suffices to say that after I caught my breath and nodded as vigorously as I could, we skipped breakfast.

Given our hectic schedules, we only managed to find one weekend we could both have off, and scrounge a few days afterwards for a honeymoon. Unfortunately, it was Thanksgiving weekend. We both took it in stride – I ordered cranberry coloured dresses for my bridesmaids, and Rory instructed the caterers that turkey was the only “must” for our menu. The wedding was a huge success, and all the guests left with mini pumpkin and pecan pies, while I left with a huge grin on my face, Rory’s serenade in my mind, and a secret baby growing in my belly.

I hadn’t yet told Rory, instead skipped around suggestions of alcohol, insisting it wasn’t good for my voice with so many gigs lined up. We had both managed to free up a week for a honeymoon, and decided on somewhere we thought nobody would recognize either of us and we could really escape from the world. We were wrong, but we didn’t mind – totally ignorant of the pointed stares of teenage girls all around us, we walked Dubrovnik hand in hand, and fell in love with Croatia. I tried to bring the baby up with Rory, but every time I opened my mouth I couldn’t spit the words out. I knew he’d be excited, but nonetheless this wasn’t at all planned. We left our seaside villa reluctantly, suitcases loaded into the SUV, and got to the airport just in time to catch the flight. I took my seat in first class and settled down next to Rory, but just as the seatbelt sign came on, a wave of nausea overtook me. I unbuckled quickly and raced towards the toilets, locking myself in and ignoring the insistent banging of the flight attendant. After I managed to wash my face and give some semblance of togetherness, I opened the door to find an enraged attendant, and a concerned Rory. “I’m pregnant,” I blurted out, unable to keep it in any longer.

Rory’s eyes widened, and he got that tiny furrow between his eyebrows. Then, he whipped around to face the other passengers and threw a fist into the air. “She’s pregnant!”

After practically inciting a riot, we were obviously kicked off the flight – but one more night of celebrating in Dubrovnik wasn’t a bad consequence. We spent the night tangled up in sheets, and ordered room service when Rory insisted walking was too strenuous for me “in my state”. I rolled my eyes, and ordered mudcake.

When we returned home, Rory sold our apartment in Los Angeles, and we bought a recently renovated farmhouse in the outskirts of Nashville to inhabit. We kept Rory’s old apartment in LA and still travelled to and from for gigs – mine, and his – before we both took a year off, starting just before the baby was due. After we were married, Rory had taken to using his wedding serenade as the closing song on his set list. On the last night of the music festival, and his last gig of the year, Rory started playing the song and backstage I closed my eyes, swaying my hips in time to the strumming of his guitar. As he hit the last chord, the contractions I’d been ignoring all night suddenly grew in intensity.

“AB, baby,” Rory said, his hand at my waist once he came off stage, “What’s going on?”

Pushing his fingers onto my taught belly, I looked him in the eyes.

“I thought they were Braxton Hicks. I’m pretty sure I was wrong.”

With contractions rushing over me every three minutes, we rushed to the birthing centre and upon arrival the midwife told me I was already 8 centimeters dilated. Just after midnight, on the morning of July 4th, our beautiful baby girl was born. We named her Holiday Matilda, and Rory rocking around the house singing to his “Holly girl” as he called her, quickly became my favourite thing. Holly’s head full of dark hair fell out and, as she became a toddler and then a little girl, was replaced with a full head of blonde curls, accented by her daddy’s same piercing blue eyes.

Rory’s career continued to skyrocket, and Holly was a puppy at his heels – occasionally joining him on stage, but more often backstage with me, giant headphones in place and a smile on her face as she contentedly watched her daddy perform. The year she turned four was Rory’s biggest year – his latest album went double platinum in the US. We celebrated with takeaway pizza, pyjamas and a movie night, and much to his surprise once more – a positive pregnancy test.

With tour demands and obligations, I sent him out on the road while Holly and I stayed home – my belly growing daily. I sent him bump updates every night at his request, and when I found out we were having twins, I hopped on a jet with Holly in tow and we met him in London to celebrate. His last lot of shows were in Australia, and as much as I wanted to visit Sydney in particular, my doctor wouldn’t clear me for travel – or at least he wouldn’t clear my 36 week pregnant belly. In retrospect, it was good advice. While Rory was flying back to Nashville, my water broke and our twin boys were born just before his plane touched down on the private runway. He ran into the room panicked, hair flopping into his eyes. “Jesus, AB. I’m so sorry.” But I wasn’t mad – I was too in love with the tiny humans we’d created. Jasper Ives and Willem Ford were named after our favourite artists – and soon our somewhat quiet household of three grew into a very noisy household of five. Jazz and Will were undeniably trouble makers, but with their twin heads of brown curls, I couldn’t bear to be angry at them for more than a minute. Rough and tumble one minute, and best friends the next, the twins definitely wore my patience down – but Rory always had time for them, no matter what he had to do on any given day.

After one particularly stressful day, Rory locked me in the bathroom with a full bath, vanilla candles, a glass of red wine and my favourite book. I could hear the kids complaining as he fed them dinner and took them to bed. I stayed in the bath till the water turned cold. Finally, just as I stepped out of the tub, he opened the door. I backed into the shower, and he followed me in. Kissing him deeply, I tangled my hand into the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Let’s have another baby,” I said, gasping for breath between kisses.

And the rest was history. Our fourth, and last, baby was born in the early hours of the morning, at our own home. Unplanned, and very quickly, Poppy Madeline decided she couldn’t bear the drive to the hospital and instead was born into her father’s steady hands. Poppy was a carbon copy of her big sister at birth, and that didn’t change as she grew older. That night, with our three children sleeping down the hall, and a new baby clutched between us, I don’t think our love had ever been stronger.

And here we are, four years later – Rory still tours, I still record, Holly still looks at her daddy like he hung the moon, the twins still drive me absolutely insane, and Poppy still surprises me every day – and I still thank the deities I don’t really believe in every day for my crazy, beautiful life.

Anna “AB” and Rory have Holiday “Holly”, Jasper “Jazz”, Willem “Will” and Poppy.