It starts with a squeal and a thud. Leah barrels into the room, clutching one of your old film cameras with both hands like she’s found buried treasure. Her curls are wild, cheeks pink from the heat, and the way she lights up — it makes my chest ache in that familiar way.“Mummy’s camwa!” she announces proudly, climbing straight onto my lap. I blink down at the camera, surprised. “Where’d you find this, bub?”

“In the drawer!” Of course. One of your old favorites, dusty now but still working. I turn it in my hands, remembering Paris, your fingers on the lens, your laughter echoing through Montmartre. Back when it was just you and me and the idea of a future. Now we’re living in it. “Wanna take pictures of Mummy?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Her gasp says it all.

We step out into the garden — she on my shoulders, camera in hand. You’re out there already, under the trees, sunlight caught in your hair, that white lace dress flowing around your bump. Thirty-five weeks. A little boy, nearly here. You cradle your belly instinctively, like your hands are drawn there by love. I guide Leah’s hands on the camera. “Gently, like this. Look through here—yeah, that’s it.”

Click. She laughs, eyes wide. “I did it!” You glance over, smile warm and soft, eyes bright when they meet mine. You look like something out of a dream, the kind I don’t want to wake up from. Leah slides down from my shoulders and runs to you. You kneel to meet her, arms open. My heart squeezes. You hold her, your bump pressed between you, and I lift the camera again. The shutter clicks.

I can’t stop. Every angle, every glance — I want to bottle this day. Leah’s hand on your belly, your head tilted back in laughter, the grass tangled around your legs. Everything golden. Everything full of life. “Baby brother’s in there,” Leah says softly, pressing a kiss to your stomach. You smile at her like the world begins and ends with her. With us.

I lie back in the grass, watching you both. You’re all I see. All I want. Four years together. A daughter. A baby boy on the way. A home in Hampstead full of your laughter, her chatter, the scent of your shampoo on the pillow next to mine.

Leah flops onto my chest, breathless. “We made a picture, Daddy.” I kiss her curls. “The best one.” You stretch beside us, your fingers brushing mine, belly round between us. We’re tangled up in sun and grass and something too big to name. I look at you, and my heart answers: This is it. This is everything.

And we’ve only just begun.