After dinner, my mother brought out an old photo album. We sat on the couch and turned pages. Clare and I as little girls. Clare in a princess costume. Me in a science fair T-shirt holding a model volcano.
My mother traced the edge of one picture with her finger. “I can’t believe I missed so much,” she whispered.
“You didn’t miss it,” I said gently. “You were there. You just weren’t looking.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she didn’t argue. She nodded instead. “I’m looking now,” she said, voice thick.
In January, Daniel invited me to Camp David again for a quiet weekend. The world felt far away there—no reporters, no gossip, just trees and cold air and the sound of boots on gravel.
On Saturday night, after dinner, Daniel took me outside. The sky was clear, stars sharp.
He pulled a small box from his coat pocket.
My breath caught. “Daniel…”
He shook his head slightly, like he needed me to listen before panic took over. “I’m not asking you to become anything you don’t want,” he said. “I’m not asking you to step into a role. I’m asking you to keep being you, with me.”
He opened the box. A ring, simple and beautiful.
“I want a life with you,” he said quietly. “Not a headline. Not an image. A life.”