They’re still asleep under that thin blue blanket, all three of them curled up like this is the coziest vacation in the world. I watch their little chests rise and fall and pretend — for a moment — that this is just a fun trip.
We set up the tent behind a rest stop past the county line. Technically, we shouldn’t be there, but it’s quiet. Yesterday, the security guy gave me a look that said he wasn’t going to kick us out. Not yet.
I told the boys we were camping. “Just us guys,” I said, trying to make it sound like an adventure — like I hadn’t just sold my wedding ring three days ago for gas and a jar of peanut butter.
They’re still too young to know the truth. Sleeping on air mattresses and eating cereal out of paper cups is fun to them. They think I’m brave, like I have a plan. The truth? I’ve been calling every shelter from here to Roseville. No space for four. Maybe Tuesday. Maybe.
Their mom left six weeks ago, said she was going to her sister’s, and hasn’t been heard from since. I’ve been holding it together somehow — washing up at gas stations, making up bedtime stories, tucking them in like everything’s okay.
Last night, my middle one, Micah, mumbled in his sleep:
“Daddy, I like this better than the motel.”
It broke me. Because he meant it. And because tonight might be the last night I can make this feel like a game.
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