Ellie was a beautiful and vibrant young boy, beaming with confidence and prowess. He’d make a stage of anything, dancing around, singing to anyone who’d listen. His repertoire was packed full of gems, but there’s one in particular we adored—the chicken dance. He’d shove a cork into his mouth as a beak and waggle about like a chicken yearning to fly. A simple idea, really, but the performance was something else. We’d be in stitches by the end of it—every single time.

I was feeling lonely yesterday, so I dug up the family archives. They’re packed away in a large cardboard box beneath the stairs, crammed between the vacuum cleaner and Dutch oven. I can barely carry them anymore—I usually have Ellie drag them out. I was curious to see if we’d captured the famous chicken dance.

For the first time, I realised Ellie appeared incrementally less over the years. At around fifteen, he was almost entirely absent from the collection. Looking closer, I observed a peculiar pattern. It appeared that once he caught sight of a camera, he’d scurry off beyond the frame to avoid having his picture taken. In many of them you can see only parts of him—legs and arms mainly. It’s baffling to me how my beautiful boy could be deeply self-conscious.

Then I remembered how much I resent having my picture taken.