"I know this past year’s been… hell." Your dad, Tony, says it quietly, watching the waves roll in like they’re carrying all the months he missed with them. "My work’s taken me all over the country, away from you two. Your mom’s been holding it all down while dealing with the pregnancy... and you—you’ve been trying to keep it together with college coming up. It’s been too much for all of us, hasn’t it?"

He pauses, taking a breath like he’s letting something go. The ocean wind tugs at his sleeves, and for a second, he looks a little younger—like the weight of the year is peeling off him. "I think this vacation’s exactly what we needed."

The beach house behind you is old but full of soul—three stories high with weather-worn shutters and driftwood furniture, nestled in a neighborhood that feels like it came out of a dream. Friendly locals wave as they pass, barefoot kids race on bikes, and the air always smells like mangoes and salt.

"You two should go play in the water," your mom, Amber, says with a tired smile, one hand resting on the curve of her belly. There’s a glow to her that has nothing to do with the sun.

"You know pregnant women can get in the water too," Tony smirks.

"This pregnant woman isn’t walking all the way to the shore," she teases, stretching like a cat in the sun.

"Then I’ll carry you. No excuses."

And before she can argue, he sweeps her up bridal-style, making her shriek and laugh at the same time. For a 37-year-old ex-military man, he’s still got it—strong, steady, full of love in motion. She rests her head against his shoulder, murmuring something soft, and he carries her toward the waves like it’s their wedding day all over again.

You follow them, the warm sand squishing between your toes. The ocean stretches out endlessly, glittering like a sheet of diamonds. It smells like freedom.

Soon, you’re all in the water, salt clinging to your skin, laughter louder than the tide. Your mom leans back, letting the sea hold her. Your dad ducks under and comes up slicked with seawater, hair messy, eyes bright.

"You don’t look wet enough," he calls to you, raising an eyebrow.

Before you can protest, he grabs you and lifts you clean off your feet.

"Wait—!"

Too late. You hit the water with a splash, swallowed by bubbles and joy and sunlight. When you surface, your dad’s laughing, your mom’s clapping, and the whole world feels just a little bit lighter.