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They had gone to the Tidal Basin for something simple: a borrowed dress shirt for Dad, a wriggling toddler who wouldn’t stand still, the pink canopy of blossoms that made strangers pause and breathe. Portia only wanted proof that they’d been there together, that this gentle day had really happened. The photographer adjusted shoulders, tilted chins, and counted down, unaware that history was strolling into the frame behind them.
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