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.”
And that just about broke me.
Because he was right. The motel was moldy, dark, and filled with shouting strangers. Here, we have trees, stars, and each other. And because I know tonight might be the last night I can make this feel like an adventure instead of what it really is.
I glance back at the boys, still asleep. Theo, just four, clutches his stuffed dinosaur, the one toy I couldn’t bring myself to leave behind. His blond curls are tangled, and there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He’s the one I worry about the most. He doesn’t understand why Mommy stopped calling. He asks about her every night.
Right after they wake up, I have to tell them something I’ve been dreading: that we need to move again. That “camp” is ending. That I don’t know where we’re going next.
I start unzipping the tent just as the sun cracks over the horizon.
“Daddy?” Jack’s voice, groggy but awake.
“Hey, buddy.” I smile like I’ve slept more than three hours. “Morning.”
One by one, the others stir. Micah rubs his eyes, Theo clutches Dino tighter and yawns. We sit together at the edge of the tent, passing around the last two cereal cups. I pretend not to notice Micah giving the rest of his to Theo.
“We gonna go fishing today?” Jack asks.
“Not today,” I say gently. “We might need to drive a little bit.”
“Oh. Like a road trip?”
“Kind of.” I smile again, my mouth aching from the effort. “A new spot. Closer to the mountains.”
They cheer. It’s amazing, the things they can believe when you say it with a smile.
I pack up the tent slowly, stalling. I keep looking at my phone, praying for a call back from that shelter in Elk Grove. Nothing.
We drive for a while. I turn on the radio, let them sing along to silly songs. I laugh when Theo makes up words, even though my heart’s thudding in my chest like it knows something I don’t.
At a gas station, I pull over to let them use the restroom. I refill our water bottles. I buy three bananas and a pack of crackers with the last five-dollar bill in my wallet.
While they sit on the curb, eating and giggling, I step behind the building and make another call. I tell the woman on the other end we’re still looking. Still hoping.
This time, she pauses.
“How many kids?” she asks.
“Three,” I say. “All boys. Nine, seven, and four.”
Another pause.
“I might have something. It’s not perfect, but it’s warm and clean. You’d need to be here by 6 tonight.”
I close my eyes. “We’ll be there.”
Back in the car, I turn around and look at them. “Boys,” I say, “change of plans. We’re going on a different kind of adventure.”
They don’t ask questions. They cheer again. They trust me. Somehow, still, they trust me.
The shelter is in an old church building. Volunteers meet us at the door. They bring out juice boxes and let the boys pick out books and puzzles from a shelf. A woman named Trina hands me a key to a room with four beds and a shared bathroom.
“There’s dinner at 6:30,” she says kindly. “You made it just in time.”
I sit on the edge of the cot while the boys rush to claim the top bunk. The room smells like lemon cleaner. There’s a window. There are sheets.
Micah climbs down and pulls something out of his pocket. “Here, Daddy,” he says. “You can have Dino tonight. You look sad.”
I take the stuffed dinosaur and feel something in my chest shatter and rebuild all at once.
After dinner, the boys fall asleep fast. It’s the first time in weeks they’ve had full bellies and a mattress. I sit by the window, looking out into the dark.
For the first time, I let myself cry.
But they’re not tears of defeat.
They’re tears of hope.
Because maybe tomorrow we’ll find a job board, or a resource center, or someone who knows someone. Maybe someone will give us a chance. Maybe I’ll find work, even if it’s just sweeping or stacking shelves. I’d do anything.
And maybe—just maybe—my boys won’t have to know the full truth of what we’ve been through until they’re old enough to understand how hard I fought to keep their world from falling apart.
Maybe one day, when they’re grown, they’ll remember this time as that fun summer when Dad took them camping.
And maybe that’s enough.
Three months later, I’m working full-time at a hardware store.
We’re living in a small two-bedroom apartment with secondhand furniture, but it’s ours. Jack is playing Little League. Micah has joined a reading club at the library. Theo still sleeps with Dino every night.
The other day, Jack found an old map we used on the road. “Remember this, Dad?” he said, pointing at a smudge of marker. “That’s where we camped, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Just us guys.”
They still don’t know. Not really.
And maybe that’s okay.
This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.