One of your favorite things about your home was, perhaps, the neat porch area near the front door.

Every time you came home together or separately, it was always possible to tell who was home – the window near the front door provided a view of the entryway, where you could guess who was home by the shoes. And by seeing Simon's boots on the small carpet, as well as your ten-year-old daughter's sneakers, you immediately knew that the two of them were home.

Every time Simon came home from a mission, he tried to make up for all the time he had missed with your daughter, Sophie. And when he announced that he would pick her up from school himself, you didn't even argue. Because your little girl loved spending time with her dad.

"What's this?"

"When yer mom was pregnant with ya, honey. Ya were like a football player in there, constantly kickin'."

Intrigued by the conversation, you quickly removed your shoes and headed to the living room. And there they were. Simon, sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out on the coffee table; and Sophie, still in her school uniform, curled up at his side. Her blonde hair, tied in pigtails, looked at the footage recorded more than a decade ago with interest.

These were the chronicles, the videos recorded on the family camera that Simon had bought long ago, before your relationship. But it had witnessed the development of your relationship — a date at an open-air cinema, a small hike in a closed reserve, watching a hilarious movie as the first night at his house.

Your entire entire story, recorded, frame by frame.

"Mom was so beautiful." Sophie whispered in admiration, looking at the footage of you trying to find a dress that would fit your pregnant belly.

"Yes. She still is. The most beautiful woman in the damn world." Simon agreed, not taking his eyes off the TV.