“Say, CHEESE!” I bared my teeth to show my daughter how to do it because she was clearly not getting the concept of smiling on cue. Instead, she muttered “cheese,” staring off into the sea of sunflowers, her neatly done French plait already askew. “Maddie, cheeeeeeeseee. Smile, Maddie! Come on, just one smile!”

She groaned like a teenager. She was only seven years old. The bright sunflowers towered above her, illuminating the landscape, their golden manes beckoning for a more enthusiastic model. “Mummy, can we go now?”

Another woman was taking a selfie with her son, both grinning like they were actually having fun together.

“We’ve just arrived, Mads. Come on, look like you’re having fun!” I took a shot of her not having fun. “Show everyone that you’re having fun because we are having fun, aren’t we?” my voice rose ten decibels.

“Ohhh, Mummy.”

“I just want a couple of nice photos. Shall we do a selfie?”

She scrunched her face up like crumpled brown paper. “This is boring.”

“It’s beautiful. Look at the sunflowers smiling down at you.” I held my phone in front of her and tried to snatch a millisecond where she stared at their honeycomb faces. “Gorgeous! Come here.” I embraced her and pulled a funny face to get another shot, but her expression resembled a fed-up raisin.

An older man with a clotted cream shirt strolled by. “Are you enjoying the flowers?” he asked Maddie.

She pointed at the Canon strapped around his neck. “What’s that?”

“It’s my camera.” He winked at me, and I self-consciously hid my phone. “I use it to take really special photographs.”

“My mummy uses her phone to take photographs.”

“Ah, most people do nowadays.”

“Do you take photos all the time?”

My cheeks burned.

The man shook his head. “Only sometimes. That’s what makes them special.”

As the man showed Maddie his camera, the warm, golden field had a different shine to it. People with phones were everywhere, taking photo after photo, pose after pose. Smiling at a lens. I tucked my phone into my bag, feeling guilty for snatching photos rather than making memories. Since the car crash, I had tried desperately to make up for the fact that I nearly killed my daughter due to one lapse of judgment. Every second with her had been so precious that I wanted to frame it. But here she was, a strong, courageous girl who seemed to have moved on better than I had and simply wanted to enjoy her childhood rather than record it.

“Mummy, I want a camera!” Maddie said, fuelled with excitement.

I laughed with the man. “Better than wanting a phone, I suppose. Come on, Mads, let’s let this man enjoy his day. Why don’t we go and do something you want to do now?”

“Can we pick our own sunflowers? You said in the shop we can. Pleeeease?”

“I thought you wanted to leave?”

“No, I just don’t want to take any more photos.”

The man bent down to Maddie. “Why don’t you let me take one last special photograph of you with your mother? It might mean a great deal to her.”

Maddie looked up at me. “Okaaay.”

I handed him my phone, mouthing a thank you, and wrapped my arm around my radiant daughter.

“Say, CHEESE!” he beamed.