That mattered.
The watch did not need to become a test of whether Oliver had forgiven the whole year.
He could be interested.
He could also stop being interested.
When dessert arrived, he asked whether there was more chocolate sauce.
There was.
For several minutes, the most urgent question in the room concerned how much would fit beside the cake without reaching the strawberries.
It was an excellent problem to have.
After dinner, Maria asked whether we wanted a photograph.
Oliver looked around the table.
Then at me.
“Can we do one outside?”
“Of course.”
We went to the terrace.
The evening was cool.
Francesca complained about the light.
Charles insisted he looked better in shadows.
Maria told him the camera was not qualified to make that judgment.
Oliver laughed.
We stood together.
Then he moved out of the group.
For a second, I thought he had changed his mind.
He held out his hand toward Maria.
“You should be in one.”
She smiled.
“Someone has to take it.”
“I can.”
I looked at the camera.
Then at her.
She handed it to him.
She showed him where to place his fingers.
How to hold it steadily.
Which button to press.
No warning about how expensive it was.
No reminder of what happened to another valuable object near the staircase.
She gave a child clear instructions and trusted him to follow them.
He lifted the camera.
We waited.
“Dad, move a little.”
I moved.
“No. The other little.”
Everyone laughed.
He adjusted the frame.
Then took the photograph.
When we went back inside, he reviewed it with Maria.
Charles’s eyes were closed.
Francesca was laughing.
I was looking at my son instead of the lens.
