The last photo I took today

I was kneeling in the mud at the edge of a field, rain slipping down my neck, trying to catch the moment the bride’s grandmother stepped forward to hand her the bouquet. The light was gone, the camera was fogging up, and I swear I almost dropped it—then I saw it: the way her hands trembled, not from age, but from something like relief. I didn’t even check the shot until an hour later. It’s quiet. It’s blurry. But it’s the one that stayed with me. That’s the thing about weddings—you don’t always get the perfect frame. You just get the real one.