They’re still asleep right now. All three of them, piled together under that thin blue blanket like it’s the coziest thing in the world. I watch their chests rise and fall and pretend—for a second—that this is a vacation.
We pitched the tent behind a rest stop just past the county line. Technically not allowed, but it’s quiet, and the security guy gave me a look yesterday that said he wasn’t going to kick us out. Not yet.
I told the boys we were going camping. “Only us guys,” I said, like it was an adventure. Like I hadn’t sold my wedding ring three days earlier to afford gas and peanut butter.
The thing is… they’re too little to know the difference. They think sleeping on air mattresses and eating cereal from paper cups is fun. They think I’m brave. Like I’ve got some kind of plan.
But truth is, I’ve been calling every shelter from here to Roseville and no one has a spot for four. The last place said perhaps Tuesday. Perhaps.
Their mom left six weeks ago. She said she was going to her sister’s. Left a note and half a bottle of Advil on the counter. I haven’t heard from her since.
I’ve been holding it together, barely. Washing up at gas stations. Making up stories. Keeping bedtime routines. Tucking them in like everything’s okay.
But last night… my middle one, Micah, mumbled something in his sleep. Said, “Daddy, I like this better than the motel.”
And that about broke me.
Because he was right. And because I know tonight might be the last night I can pull this off.
Right after they wake up, I’ve got to tell them something.
Something I’ve been dreading.
And as I started unzipping the tent—
Micah stirred. “Daddy?” he whispered, rubbing his eyes. “Can we go see the ducks again?”
He meant the ones at the pond near the rest stop. We’d gone the night before and he’d laughed harder than I’d heard in weeks. I forced a smile.
“Yes, buddy. As soon as your brothers are up.”
By the time we packed up our few things and brushed teeth at the sink behind the building, the sun was already baking the grass. My youngest, Toby, held my hand and hummed quietly, while my oldest, Caleb, kicked rocks and asked if we’d go hiking today.
I was about to tell them we couldn’t stay another night when I saw her.
A woman, perhaps late sixties, was walking toward us with a paper bag in one hand and a giant thermos in the other. She wore a worn-out flannel shirt and had a long braid down her back. I figured she was going to ask if we were okay—or worse, tell us to move on.
Instead, she smiled and held out the bag.
“Morning,” she said. “You boys want some breakfast?”
The boys lit up before I could answer. Inside the bag were warm biscuits and boiled eggs, and the thermos held hot cocoa. Not coffee—cocoa. For them.
Right after they wake up, I’ve got to tell them something.
Something I’ve been dreading.
And as I started unzipping the tent—
Micah stirred. “Daddy?” he whispered, rubbing his eyes. “Can we go see the ducks again?”
He meant the ones at the pond near the rest stop. We’d gone the night before and he’d laughed harder than I’d heard in weeks. I forced a smile.
“Yes, buddy. As soon as your brothers are up.”
By the time we packed up our few things and brushed teeth at the sink behind the building, the sun was already baking the grass. My youngest, Toby, held my hand and hummed quietly, while my oldest, Caleb, kicked rocks and asked if we’d go hiking today.
I was about to tell them we couldn’t stay another night when I saw her.
A woman, perhaps late sixties, was walking toward us with a paper bag in one hand and a giant thermos in the other. She wore a worn-out flannel shirt and had a long braid down her back. I figured she was going to ask if we were okay—or worse, tell us to move on.
Instead, she smiled and held out the bag.
“Morning,” she said. “You boys want some breakfast?”
The boys lit up before I could answer. Inside the bag were warm biscuits and boiled eggs, and the thermos held hot cocoa. Not coffee—cocoa. For them.
