Not to them.
“You want Dada to join your tea party, Emma?” I asked one afternoon as she tugged at my hand, leading me toward the backyard.
“Come,” she said firmly, her tiny fingers wrapping around mine. “Sit.”
I let myself be pulled along, a small smile forming despite the constant dull ache in my body.I sat cross-legged beside her as she handed me an invisible cup.I lifted it carefully, pretending to sip, nodding in approval.
“Very good tea,” I said.
She giggled.
Geeta had set out a few actual cookies beside us, and I picked one up, taking a small bite just to see her smile widen.
After the tea party, Lucas came running over, breathless and full of energy.
“Come on, Dad!” he said, grabbing my arm. “Let’s play football!”
I let him pull me up, ignoring the heaviness in my limbs as we made our way to the open space where the other kids were already playing.
I tried.
I really did.
But it didn’t take long before my body reminded me of its limits.
My breath grew shallow.My chest constricted.And I slowed down until I couldn’t keep up anymore.
“Go on,” I told him, forcing a smile. “I’ll watch.”
He hesitated for a second before nodding and running back into the game.
I sat down on the grass, watching him laugh, run, shout… live.
And I burned that image into my memory.
Every movement.
Every expression.
Every second.
I didn’t know how many more of these I would get.
I still carried my camera with me everywhere.It had become second nature.Any time I saw them—Jiya in the kitchen, sunlight catching in her hair… Emma curled up with her toys… Lucas lost in his own world—I lifted the camera and captured it.
Click.
Click.
Click.
I wanted to create something for them.
Something they could hold onto when I was no longer there.
An album.
A collection of memories.
