I tune her out as I lean forward and delicately place a seashell on each of my toenails. She’s incessantly talking, saying my name or some version of it again and again and again. Her hand reaches for my mouth and I almost swat it away but think twice because I know he’s watching. I hold out a finger, a warning. Give me a minute. I find a tiny white shell, we used to call them shark teeth, and place it gingerly on my pinky toe. Before too long it falls into the sand and I shake off both feet, my masterpiece crumbling. 

“Momma,” she shrieks again. “I want to swim.”

“In we go,” I say, springing up, suddenly cheery. I throw a wicked glance over my shoulder at him, then stick out my tongue, knowing that before too long any faked enthusiasm will be gone and we’ll swap places once again. 

 She and I hold hands as we race to the shore. Be fun, I tell myself. This could be your last day. We wade into the water and of course it’s freezing cold. I get to my waist and stand, hugging myself, and tell her we’ve got five minutes tops. She ignores me, radiating pure joy, oblivious to the temperature. 

“Chase me,” she says. 

I watch the families around us, playful and happy, and in this small town, at least four people deep. 

“I’m cold,” I hiss, still smiling, wondering if they’re also watching me. One mother seems to eye us. Longingly, I think. She’s got two boys, she’s slightly heftier than I am. I imagine she’s jealous of us. Me, almost slender, with my gorgeous daughter, her stomach exposed by her strangely adult bathing suit, both of us smiling. And then she waves. A woman swims past us and right up to her. They embrace. The friend is followed by her husband, two daughters and a son. Everyone plays. 

My daughter takes them in. 

“Do you feel sad,” I ask her, “when you see everyone else playing?” 

“No,” she says. She looks up at me quite seriously. “I feel happy for them.”

She leans back onto her floatie. Five years old and still can’t swim. Sometimes I feel ashamed of myself that I haven’t taught her but then mostly I feel ashamed for her. Yesterday, a baby went into the water wearing the same contraption. I made a big show about how lifesavers are made for children of all ages. Mine couldn’t have cared less. She wants to float. I want to float unencumbered. It’s a calm day, and I roll onto my back and float and float. Sometimes I wiggle my toes so that people on shore won’t worry. I realize, too late, that no one is watching.