Dima

The evening sun slowly sank into the ocean, painting the sky in golden and pink hues. We stood on the warm sand, gazing into the endless expanse of water. Our eldest son, Denis, tugged at the hem of my white dress.

"Mom, look, a seagull caught a fish!" he whispered excitedly, pointing his finger at the horizon.

"I see, my dear. What a swift bird," I smiled, stroking his sun-bleached hair.

The middle one, Tyoma, rang out with a loud laugh nearby. He was racing with the oncoming waves, sometimes running to the very edge, sometimes jumping back with a squeal.

"Tyoma, be careful, don't get your shorts even wetter," my husband called softly, gripping our youngest, one-year-old son tighter in his arms. The little one snuggled peacefully against his father's strong shoulder, mesmerized by the sunset.

My husband turned to me, and the warm light of the fading day reflected in his eyes. He came closer, put his free arm around my waist, and quietly said:

"You know, it's moments like these that make me feel absolutely happy. Thank you for them. And for us."

I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling absolute peace spreading within me. The sound of the surf lulled me, and the warmth of his hand was warmer than any blanket.

"Thank you too," I replied, watching the boys start a new game in the sand. "We're the best team in the world."