For their fortieth anniversary, Eileen and David booked a family photograph.
The photographer, Sam, suggested something relaxed.
“Nothing stiff,” Eileen agreed. “I want us exactly as we are.”
Then she sent everyone a seven-point email about what to wear.
Her son arrived in blue. His wife arrived in a different blue. Eileen said the colors clashed, which surprised David, who had spent forty years believing blue went with blue. Their daughter brought three changes of clothes and asked which version of natural they were using.
Sam arranged everyone in the garden. He put David on a bench, Eileen beside him, and the adult children behind them. The grandchildren sat on the grass. It looked lovely until Eileen noticed David’s socks.
“They’re showing.”
“They’re meant to. That’s where legs stop.”
She pulled his trousers down half an inch. He could no longer bend his knees comfortably. Sam asked him to relax. David looked like a man waiting for someone to remove a splinter.
The youngest grandchild began picking daisies. Eileen told her to stop just as Sam raised the camera.
“It’s fine,” Sam said. “I like little natural moments.”
“Of course,” Eileen said. “Daisy, pick that flower again, but look this way.”
Daisy said she’d already picked it.
“Then pick a different one.”
The second flower broke. Daisy cried. Her brother laughed. Their father told him not to laugh. Sam quietly photographed a butterfly while the family regrouped.
They tried standing. David’s son put a hand on his shoulder. Eileen said it looked as if he were being arrested. They tried walking toward the camera. Nobody could agree how quickly. David walked normally, reached Sam, and asked whether they were finished.
They tried leaning against a tree. Eileen didn’t want bark on anyone’s clothes. They tried holding hands. David’s grandson asked how much longer marriage lasted.
Then the dog wandered into the frame. Everyone turned toward it at once, smiling without being asked. Sam lifted the camera.
“Not with the dog,” Eileen said. “He wasn’t brushed.”
The dog sat on David’s foot. David couldn’t move without upsetting the trousers. Their daughter offered to brush the dog. Sam suggested brushing the family might be quicker, but wisely kept that thought to himself.
Sam suggested a tea break.
“Wonderful,” Eileen said. “But don’t take any photographs while we’re drinking. Nobody looks nice chewing.”
Everyone went inside. David loosened his collar. His son rolled up his sleeves. Their daughter took off the shoes she’d worn because Eileen said they were casual. The grandchildren ate biscuits on the floor. David began telling them about the time Eileen reversed into a wheelbarrow.
“I did not,” she said.
“You did. We still have the wheelbarrow.”
“That proves nothing.”
The room erupted. Eileen laughed despite herself. Sam, standing in the doorway, raised the camera and took three quick photographs.
Eileen saw him. “Oh, no. We weren’t ready.”
“Exactly,” Sam said.
A week later, he sent the proofs. The garden pictures showed carefully coordinated people attempting to remember what shoulders normally did. The kitchen pictures were warm, funny, and unmistakably their family.
Eileen chose one of the kitchen photographs for the wall.
David studied it. Every face was lit up. Even Daisy, holding a biscuit, looked delighted.
“Sam was right,” he said. “That’s us exactly as we are.”
Eileen nodded. Then she enlarged the picture on her phone and pointed at a tea towel hanging over the oven.
“Can he change that to blue?”