“Everybody look at me for three seconds.”
Daniel was checking the boat straps for what had to be the fourth time.
“Three seconds. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Dad’s squishing me,” my youngest complained.
Daniel tightened the arm around his shoulders. “Good. Maybe you’ll stay still.”
The boys laughed. I pressed the shutter.

Click.

That was the last photograph I took of all four of them together.

I didn’t know that yet. I was squinting at the screen to check if anyone had blinked, thinking about the grocery list, thinking about whether I’d remembered to put sunscreen in their bag. Normal things. The kinds of things you think about when you still believe you have time.
Daniel turned toward the truck. “Life jackets?”

Three groans. “Yes, Dad.”

“Whistles?”

“Dad.”

“Humor me.”

“They’re packed.”

He nodded slowly, with the expression of a man who had just confirmed that national security was intact. That was my husband. Full tank before every road trip. Weather checked twice, then checked again because apparently weather could change in the seventeen seconds since the last refresh.

He had fished that lake for three years. He knew every launch point, every shallow stretch, and every place the current turned strange after heavy rain.And this time, I didn’t look at the photograph afterward wondering who might disappear before the next one.

I just let myself be in it.

For the first time in six years, that was enough.