They say retirement is a peaceful time, full of golf, naps, and slowly losing track of what day it is. Which is a fancy way of saying I wake up every morning and guess if it’s Tuesday or Christmas. Spoiler: it’s never Christmas.

Right now, I’m parked in a creaky folding chair that’s working way harder than it signed up for, one hand nursing a cold beer against my knee, the other flipping burgers on the grill like I’m auditioning for Top Chef: Dad Bod Edition. My knees snap, crackle, and pop louder than the kids chasing each other around the lake house patio. I shift my weight and my back reminds me that I used to get paid—well—to throw other grown men into the dirt. Now? I grunt every time I stand up like it’s a competitive sport.

“You want cheese on that, Reggie?” I yell, flipping a patty with the enthusiasm of a sloth on Ambien.

“Yeah, but not the weird kind,” Reggie shouts back. “You bought the vegan one last time.”

“One time! ONE TIME I try to sneak some heart-healthy nonsense into your cholesterol-fueled diet and suddenly I’m the villain. I see how it is.”

He laughs. His wife gives me a thumbs-up like I’m doing God’s work, and I kinda am. These burgers are borderline spiritual.

Kids are cannonballing off the dock. Someone’s playing old-school R&B on a Bluetooth speaker that keeps cutting out every time someone opens the cooler. And then there’s my wife—my five-foot-two piece of sunshine and unsolicited cleaning—zipping around in her white linen pants like a graceful little tornado.

She’s the only wife not lounging with a drink or pretending to help. Nope, she’s wiping down tables, refilling lemonade, and sneaking slices of watermelon to the toddlers. She looks like a hummingbird. I look like a walrus who found a Hawaiian shirt.

I watch her for a second, heart doing that weird mushy thing it does. She hasn’t said a word about the beer belly I’ve cultivated like it’s my part-time job. Not once. Which of course makes me sure she’s thinking about it all the time.

“Hey babe,” I call out. She turns, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “You want me to move so the Earth rotates again?”

She rolls her eyes. “Only if it’ll help with the breeze.”

“Sarcasm. I taught you well.”

“You were born like that. I just learned to live with it.”

God, I love that woman.

I glance down at my belly. It’s not that big. Just... expressive. Like a mascot for post-career carbs. I pat it affectionately.

“Alright, you beautiful bastards,” I call to the crowd, “burgers are ready. Medium rare, medium, and medium-I-forgot-about-this-one. Pick your poison!”

The kids scream like I just announced a new season of their favorite cartoon. Adults line up with paper plates and sunburned shoulders.

I lean back in my chair, grill smoke in my nose, wife humming a tune as she wipes the table for the third time, and the sounds of summer all around me.