I look tired, not old. There are paper crinkles and darker lines but there is no overarching surprise in my face, no slashing deep folds and no receding lip. Yet. I imagined this time of life to be filled with worry about sag and old and thumb twiddling and yet it’s the pinnacle of my years so far.

It’s my boys, silently connecting. It’s my husband, that word. It’s knowing that all my luck comes largely from working my ass off. It’s this picture, and all the moments beneath it.

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