He doesn’t know everything.

I’m pointing my lens, snapping pictures of Felix as he proudly tries to save goals, when I capture him falling down. I want to run and save him, but I freeze, powerless to act quickly enough, to do anything but watch as a group of seven-and eight-year-olds kick their studded boots right near his head. I brace myself for the seemingly inevitable, but instead, something marvelous happens. He saves it! Still clutching it to his chest, he stands up—completely fine—with a massive grin on his face. I capture his image of happiness. All the parents on our side cheer and several shout, “Well done, Felix!” but I am the loudest.

I belong! It’s wonderful to feel quite so full of genuine pride because I never thought I ever truly would. I feared that I would always feel like a bit of a fraud, a thief, accepting the stolen crumbs of Nina’s life.

Greg is there, snapping pictures for the school website again. He is smiling and joking with some of the parents in between shots. He looks benign, like book-group Greg. I walk over to him and hold out my hand.

“Friends?” I say. “Thanks for the gift.”

“Friends,” he responds. “You’re welcome. Caught the culprit yet?”

“I haven’t installed it properly. I need to read the instructions more thoroughly. I think I was too overkeen when I first tried to set it up.”

“Let me know if you need a hand. I can go through all the security options.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Felix is really coming along nicely as a player,” he adds.

“Thank you. Sorry for—”

He holds out a hand, palm upward.

“No need. Water under the bridge. I’d feel the same in your position. Sorry for my accusations. I let myself get caught up in general opinion. It was wrong. Clearly, I’m not busy enough.”

“Photography’s coming along well, then?”

“Yes, fingers crossed. As well as this, I’ve been asked to take some pictures for a local angling magazine.”

Professional jealousy hits. I was stupid to let my business slide as much as I have. I miss my old life more than I thought I would.

“I can’t think of anything I’d like less than hanging out by a river or a lake with a fishing rod, especially, waiting for something to happen. And surely, it’s cruel?”

He conveniently ignores my cruel comment.

“It’s surprisingly addictive and peaceful. I try to go at least once a week. I’m embracing the whole work-life balance ethos now ever since the doc broke the news that I have high blood pressure. I even go night-fishing sometimes.”

“Definitely not my sort of thing,” I say as he names a nearby river where a friend has a lodge.

My heart sinks as he continues with the inevitable enthusiasm of a recent convert.

“It’s bloody expensive, I need to choose a cheaper hobby next time. By the time you’ve bought or hired the equipment, paid for a license...”