The bright sound of giddy laughter pulled Meryl’s attention from the book she was reading. She glanced across the room at her husband, Hugh, and they shared a quick smile.
“The mixed blessing of working from home,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“I still can’t get used to having this much space,” she said. Their Upper East Side apartment, a perk of his new teaching job at a nearby private school, made her feel like a real grown-up—even more so than their three young children did.
Hugh turned back to his work in progress, a biography of Louisa May Alcott. He scribbled something on one of the dozens of handwritten notecards strewn across the dining room table, shaking his sandy blond hair out of his eyes. Meryl loved the old-fashioned way he conducted his research. And she loved that sometimes he chose time at home with her instead of the solitude of the library.
A shriek, followed by a thump, broke through the silence.
Meryl put her book down. “I’ll go check on them.”
The hallway leading to the girls’ bedroom appeared to be post-tornado: a trail of discarded ballet tutus, Mary Janes in three different sizes, Disney princess nightgowns, sundresses … and an unspooled roll of toilet paper running the length of the hallway.
Biting her lip, Meryl quietly pushed open the half-closed door to the bedroom to find her three young daughters giggling and jostling for position in front of the full-length mirror. Eight-year-old Meg stood earnestly in her favorite white dress, a lacy, impractical frock that her grandmother had picked out from a store on Madison Avenue. Six-year-old Amy twirled in a white T-shirt and white tulle ballet skirt, while toddler Jo wore only her Pull-Ups, messy red lipstick, and a tiara with a paper napkin tucked into it.
“Hugh,” Meryl called out, “get the camera.”
She watched as Meg methodically taped a paper napkin to her sister Amy’s hair, and then did the same for her own.
“Your veil looks better than mine!” Amy cried out.
Hugh appeared beside Meryl, camera in one hand, the other gently finding the small of her back. “What’s going on?”
She pressed her finger to her lips. “You’ve got to see this,” she whispered.
“Put on your dress,” Meg ordered Jo.
“No!”
Meg, one hand on her head holding the napkin in place and the other holding a white sundress, began chasing Jo around the room.
“Noooo!” yelled Jo.
Meryl pushed open the door, and three wide-eyed little faces turned to her.
Meg stopped in her tracks, but Jo continued her circular dash around the bedroom, crying, “No! No! No!”
“We’re having a wedding and Jo won’t be a bride!” Meg’s face was flushed with indignation.
“And Meg won’t let me wear her other white dress. And I don’t have one!” Amy said.
Jo began to cry.
“Okay, okay, girls, let’s settle down. Josephine, darling, come here.” Meryl scooped Jo into her arms, kissing her plump cheek, salty with tears.
“Daddy,” Meg asked, “can you please walk me down the aisle?”
“Me too!”
“Girls, I would be honored to walk you down the aisle,” said Hugh, gallantly offering his arm. Meg reached up for it solemnly. Crisis averted, Meg and Amy made their way into the hall. Meryl carried Jo along.
Meg adjusted her veil, her brow furrowed with concentration. Meryl planted Jo beside Amy as they waited their turns.
Hugh grinned. Then, shaking his head, he walked slowly down the hall while humming “Here Comes the Bride.” Meg gazed up at him adoringly.
Meryl knelt down, camera in front of her face, adjusting the lens until Hugh and Meg were clearly in the frame. She felt her chest tighten, overwhelmed with love for her family.
She also felt an intense need to capture the moment—to hold on to the innocent joy forever. Even with a photograph, she knew that she couldn’t. This day would pass, the girls would grow up, and she and Hugh would get older. But she told herself that even when other things changed, one thing would not: They would always have each other. She and Hugh and the girls.
Hugh looked at her and, as if reading her thoughts, gave a wink.
Meryl snapped the perfect photo and smiled.