They’re still asleep right now. All three of them—Jack, Micah, and little Theo—tangled together under that too-thin blue blanket like it’s the coziest thing in the world. Their soft breaths come and go in a rhythm that feels like the only steady thing in my life right now.
I sit cross-legged at the entrance of the tent, trying not to let the morning dew soak through my jeans, watching the sunrise like it might give me a miracle. The air is cold, crisp, and quiet behind the rest stop just past the county line. Technically, we shouldn’t be here, but the security guard looked the other way yesterday. Gave me a nod like he understood something he wasn’t going to say out loud.
I told the boys we were going camping. “Just us guys,” I said, with my best brave-dad voice. Made it sound like an adventure. Like I wasn’t holding back tears after selling my wedding ring just to afford gas and a jar of peanut butter. Like I hadn’t spent the night before in the front seat of the car, trying to Google shelters without waking them up.
The thing is, they’re too little to know the difference. They think sleeping on air mattresses and eating cereal out of paper cups is fun. Jack, my oldest at 9, even called me “Captain of the Campground” yesterday. They think I’ve got a plan.
But the truth is, I don’t.
I’ve called every shelter from here to Roseville. Some put me on a list. Others didn’t even ask for our names. The last place told me maybe Tuesday. “Maybe,” like it was a luxury. Like hope could be penciled in between soup kitchens.
Six weeks ago, their mom left. Said she was going to her sister’s. Left a note and half a bottle of Advil on the counter. She didn’t say goodbye to the boys. I told them she needed some rest. But I haven’t heard from her since.
I’ve been holding it together. Barely. Washing up at gas stations. Pretending the radiator isn’t making a noise that sounds like a scream. Making up stories. Keeping bedtime routines. Whispering lullabies I barely remember myself. Trying to make a playground out of every roadside patch of grass.
But last night, Micah—my seven-year-old—mumbled something in his sleep. He said, “Daddy, I like this better than the motel.”
