“I enjoyed our vacation together,” the 12-year-old said.

It was the last day of beach vacation. We stood in our driveway. It was time to part ways. Becca’s ride was waiting.

Vacation was over. She had school. I had work. Real life awaits us all.

But we had four days of beach. Four days of sand. Four days of seafood joints. Four days of lethargy wherein the biggest problem of the day was: Should I scratch my butt now or later?

“I’m going to miss you,” Becca said, clutching her pocketbook.

So grown up.

Her little face was sunburned. She wore her platform sandals, like a big kid. She wore cutoff shorts and a colorful Tee. Hair in bobby pins. Cuter than a duck with a hushpuppy.

I forget she’s 12 sometimes. She was a child when we met. Itty-bitty. She still knew all the words to “Baby Shark.”

Now she’s on the cusp of teenagehood. You never know what she will say. One moment she’s eating a popsicle, with a purple tongue, talking about puppies. The next moment, she’s discussing the finer points of existential free will like a French poetry major.

We’ve had a good four days. And after four days of living with my blind goddaughter, I’ve learned things. The main thing I have learned is that never once does one get a break from being blind.

Not once is blindness not a factor in her interaction with the world. Not once.

A few days ago, someone emailed about a column I wrote. “Why do you ALWAYS feel the need to mention that Becca is blind? It’s offensive to me.”

I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that this remark was made by a non-blind person.

It’s simple really. The reason I always mention Becca’s blindness is because Becca is always blind. Believe me, she never forgets it. And neither do her loved ones.

And yet here on the beach, she was less blind, somehow. And so was I. If that makes any sense.

“What was your favorite part of the trip?” I asked her.

“Hard to choose,” she said. “A lot of good moments.”

“Yeah.”

“What was your favorite moment?” she asked.

That’s easy. My favorite part of our trip happened when Becca and I were playing in the Gulf. The waves were powerful. We were having a large time, splashing, laughing, and carrying on when something happened.

Suddenly, Becca shouts, “HEY! I LOST MY BRACELET!”

The bracelet she was talking about was one I got her during a trip to Italy. It was maybe $3. I was meandering the streets of Fiorenze, I found a guy selling leather bracelets. I bought three. One for me, one for my wife, one for Becca. Becca rarely takes hers off.

I looked at her bare wrist and said, “Becca, there’s no way we can find it out here in the water.”

“WE HAVE TO!” she said. “IT’S VERY SPECIAL TO ME!”

So there I was, out in the Gulf of Mexico, wading through crashing waves, looking for a tiny leather bracelet on the seafloor, with a 12-year-old child, slung on my hip.

The sand was making the water cloudy. The waves were crashing over our heads. I had a better chance of finding a needle in a needlestack.

Finally I broke the news to her. “Becca, this is impossible, sweetie. I’ll just buy you another one.”

That’s when Becca released me. She sprang into the water, facefirst. All I could see were her little feet poking above the water as she swam around the seafloor. She was underwater for a long time. Waves crashing around us.

I told her to give it up. But she kept on searching.

Finally, Becca burst out of the water and said, “I FOUND IT!”

In her hand was the bracelet. I have no idea how a blind child accomplished this. I have no idea how such a feat was even possible.

“That was my favorite moment,” I told Becca.

“Well,” she said, embracing me before climbing into the car. “Let’s be honest. I am pretty stinking amazing.”

I’m gonna miss you, kid.