“On the count of three.” Scott lifted his phone, backing up to frame the shot. “Everyone ready?”
“No, Dad,” Keith said, already straining with an upside-down Grace in his arms.
“If you drop me, I will kill you,” she warned.
Scott ignored them, starting the countdown. “One—”
“Wait—am I holding the sword up or down?” Quinn asked.
“Up,” Emma said, never breaking her sideways finger-gun pose.
“Two.”
Jake lifted one finger to the sky, his other hand around the frets of an air guitar. Keith shook out his pirate hair and wagged his tongue. Kyle jumped, his legs splayed in what might generously be called the splits, before gravity promptly took him out.
“Three.”
Click.
A collective groan.
“Kyle!”
“You jump on three,” Jake said. “Not two. Not two and a half. Three. How many times do we have to go over this?”
“You think it’s easy?” Kyle fired back. “I don’t see any of you attempting air splits.”
“That was the pose you chose,” Quinn said, showing no remorse. “What are you, like, thirty? Can’t even pull off your own childhood stunts anymore. Sad.”
“Relax. I can still do the splits.” Kyle rolled a shoulder. “They just happen when I’m dodging Nerf bullets or tripping over scooters.”
Keith readjusted his grip, his face straining. “I don’t recall you being this heavy, Grace.”
“Because I was four when the original picture was taken.”
“I’m just saying, when you were little, you weighed, like, a sack of flour. Now you’re Costco.”
“Costco?” Her voice pitched up. “You should be very careful how you proceed from here, Keith.”
“I didn’t mean, like, big-box heavy,” he said, backpedaling into deeper trouble. “I meant physics heavy—”
“Keith,” Emma cut in, “this is the part where you shut up.”
“Again!” Scott barked.
The McKallister siblings took their marks, and the countdown restarted. Scott lifted the phone, hit three, and pressed the button.
Click.
* * *
Michelle
The photo was presented to me on my birthday. It was the kind of night mothers love: everyone home, everyone healthy, everyone getting along just enough to make me believe I’d done something right. But tonight was extra special. It was my birthday and my babies, all six of them now grown, had shown up unannounced. Not with their spouses or their kids or their dogs; just them. And Scott. And me. The core eight.
Like old times.
The photo shoot had been Scott’s idea—a surprise—and he and the kids had recreated one of our favorite family photos. The image had perfectly captured their personalities at that moment in time. Though we all found the original photo hilarious, there was also an element of bittersweet in those innocent faces staring back at me. It was the last picture taken of the kids before our lives turned upside down. Maybe that was the point of recreating the photograph—to prove we were still standing on the other side of it.
And not just standing. These kids of mine had thrived. Funny how success can rewrite the past, making the hardest choices seem simple in hindsight. But nothing about our life had ever been simple. From the day I met Scott, life had asked me to choose. At nineteen, I’d stood on the edge of two worlds, caught between the life I was born into and the man I couldn’t live without.
I chose love… and in return, life gave me them.
“Dad, are we eating dinner or cremating it?” Grace asked.
Scott stood at the barbecue like he was commanding a small army. The burgers were overcooked, the corn was probably burnt, and he was somehow still proud of himself.
“It’s called flavor, daughter,” he said, like this was common knowledge. “Smoke is just seasoning in its purest form.”
Grace glanced at Kyle. Kyle looked at me. I met Emma’s eye. Not one of us believed him, nor did we call him out. We’d learned long ago that Scott’s optimism was its own kind of magic.
Jake leaned in, his voice low. “This backyard barbecue is literally the man’s Super Bowl moment.”
“I can hear you,” Scott called over the sizzle. “I need hype kids. Not assholes.” But his grin gave him away. Being roasted by his offspring was his favorite form of attention.
“What I can’t believe,” Keith said, “is that Mom’s not micromanaging this mess.”
He spoke too soon. My voice was overlapping Keith’s the second the words left his mouth. “Stop prodding them, Scott,” I said. “You’re supposed to let them rest.”
“I am letting them rest,” he said, flipping one over. “They just happen to rest better on the hot side.”
I sighed. “Fine. Do it your way.”
“Gladly. And how about you go back to being the supportive wife I know you can be?” he said, walloping me with sarcasm. “And let me get back to what I was born to do.”
Kyle leaned back in his chair, a beer dangling from his hand. “Ah, nothing like a romantic dinner show. Watching you two flirt is my favorite form of birth control.”
Laughter rippled across the patio.
“How are you two even still married?” Grace asked.
Scott raised his tongs. “Paperwork’s a nightmare, sweetheart. Easier to stay together.”
“So romantic.” Emma swooned.
“I’m more curious about how they got together in the first place,” Keith said. “All we know is you met at a 7-Eleven, Mom’s family hated Dad and had his face rearranged—which explains a lot—and then you married him out of pity on the courthouse steps. Am I missing anything?”
“Nope,” Scott said. “Went down pretty much exactly like that.”
“No, it did not,” I said, before I could stop myself.
Scott caught my eye, one brow lifting in quiet warning. We’d agreed long ago which parts of our story had to stay buried. I looked around the table at my kids—grinning, waiting for the version that would make them laugh.
My voice softened.
“That’s not the story,” I said. “It’s the headline.”
The chatter faded as Scott pulled the burgers and corn from the grill. I leaned back in my chair and looked at him. He gave me that half-smile that still had the power to undo me.
“It all started with an empty gas tank,” I said, falling back into my memories.
A seagull cried out somewhere in the distance.
And then—
Read What Lasts to continue…