Two years after the wedding, I stood barefoot on the back porch of our home while Emma chased fireflies across the darkening lawn.

Julian handed me a glass of lemonade.

“You’re thinking again,” he said.

“I do that occasionally,” I said, and he laughed.

Emma came pelting toward us, her cupped hands held out in front of her like a treasure.

“Mommy!

Daddy!

Look!” A single firefly glowed inside her small palms, on and off, on and off, and we all admired it, gravely, until she opened her hands and released it back into the warm summer dark.