“I want another photographer,” I said. “Not because I want fewer pictures of Nathan. I want more. I want someone whose entire job that morning is to capture him.” Lena was silent. “I want his face when the doors open. His hand on my arm. Every step he takes. I want the moment he reaches Daniel, and the moment he realizes he actually did it.” I swallowed. “And I want a separate album. One that tells his part of the story.”

Lena understood immediately. “I can do that.” I thanked her and hung up. The extra photographer meant cutting two large flower arrangements from the reception, but I didn’t care. For the next three weeks, Nathan kept practicing. “Twenty-two steps today,” he texted me one night. Then another message: “I forgot the turn. Doing it again.” I smiled at my phone. “I practiced,” he always said.

On the wedding morning, Nathan wore Dad’s cufflinks. Before the ceremony, he found me and held out his arm. “Ready?” “Ready.” The doors opened, and he began counting softly. One. Two. Three. Halfway down, he whispered, “Dad would’ve liked your dress.” At the altar, he released my arm and hugged Daniel. Then he pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket. “I wrote something.” He told everyone Dad had taught him that big brothers take care of their little sisters. Then he looked at me. “Dad can’t do that today, so I did.”

Eight weeks later, the photographs arrived. The album was beautiful. But the one I loved most showed Nathan at the church doors, waiting for me. His face was serious, proud, and completely determined. Margaret eventually saw it. She stared at the photograph for a long time before quietly asking, “Can I have a copy?” I said yes. I never told Nathan what she had said. He didn’t need to know. He only needed to know that Dad’s job had been his—and he had done it perfectly.