On the day of the community photo event, the sky over Sierra Glen was an almost-offensive shade of blue.
The parking lot outside the community center was full of cars and kids and folding chairs. A handwritten sign taped to the door read: "Family Stories Today – All Welcome."
Melissa lingered near the edge of the crowd, fighting the urge to bolt.
"Last chance to pretend we got the date wrong," she murmured.
Albert shifted the folder of documents under his arm. "We already combed William's hair," he said. "There's no turning back now."
William did look strangely polished in his clean T-shirt and too-neat hair. He kept smoothing down a cowlick that refused to obey.
Maya clutched Grandma's old lunchbox to her chest like it was a trophy. "It's part of our story," she'd insisted when Melissa suggested leaving it at home.
When their turn finally came, a young volunteer with glasses led them to a simple backdrop—a neutral wall, a chair, a lighting umbrella.
"Just one thing first," the volunteer said, handing Melissa a small card. "Write down one sentence you'd like displayed under your photo."
One sentence.
We are a family felt too on-the-nose.
After the fire sounded like a charity slogan.
"Four people sharing a lease?" William suggested.
"Temporary home?" Maya tried.
Albert scratched his jaw. "What about 'Work in Progress'?"
They tossed half-serious ideas back and forth until something in Melissa clicked into place.
She pressed the card to the wall and wrote, hand surprisingly steady:
We're not sure what to call this yet, but we all show up for dinner.
She showed it to them.
William smirked. "Little long."
Maya beamed. "It's true, though."
Albert read it twice, then nodded once. "Yeah," he said. "That's us."
The photographer waved them into place.
"Kids in the middle," she said. "Grown-ups on either side."
Maya automatically stepped toward Melissa. William drifted toward Albert. The space between them yawned open, a narrow gap exactly as wide as their old lives.
"Three… two…" the photographer counted.
"Wait!" Maya blurted.
She grabbed William's hand and yanked him into the center with her.
"We stand here," she said. "They stand behind us."
William stumbled but didn't pull away.
Melissa and Albert exchanged a look and, without discussing it, moved in behind them—close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
From the front, it probably looked awkward.
From inside, it felt like a decision.
The photographer peered through the lens. "Big smiles," she said.
They all tried.
It wasn't perfect. William's hair stuck up in the back. Maya's shoelace was untied. Albert's shirt had a paint smear he'd missed. Melissa's eyes looked suspiciously shiny.
But their mouths were curved. Their bodies leaned in, ever so slightly, toward the same invisible point.
As the shutter clicked, Melissa thought, very quietly:
Whatever anyone calls this from outside… this is my home now.
Afterward, the volunteer handed them a small printed proof.
"The full print will be up on the board next week," she said. "You can come see it then."
On their way out, Melissa tucked the card with their sentence into her pocket like a receipt for something she hadn't known she'd purchased.
Back at the apartment, William taped the proof to the inside of their front door, at kid-height.
"So we gotta walk past ourselves every time we leave," he said.
Underneath, in marker, he wrote:
Inside this door, this is our last name.
Downstairs, the mailboxes rattled as the postal worker made his rounds.
Albert went to fetch their stack and came back with another envelope with the building's address in the corner.
He slit it open at the table.
"Due to current rebuild planning," he read, "a portion of units in this building may be converted to long-term leases. Priority will be given to households with stable family structures. Please bring relevant documentation and a recent family photo to your interview."
He looked up.
Melissa glanced at the proof on the door, at the hand-lettered rule about not disappearing, at the kids trying to teach the cat how to high-five.
"You realize," she said slowly, "we just took our application photo."
Albert snorted. "Hope we look convincing."
On the inside of the door, four imperfect faces smiled back at them, slightly crooked, a little uncertain, unmistakably together.
On the outside, the hallway smelled of new carpet glue and old smoke. Somewhere above, someone hammered nails into a fresh beam.
Inside this one small unit, something more delicate was being nailed together without blueprints.
And for the first time, they had a picture to prove it existed.