Chapter Forty-Three - The Trip We Took Without the Kids

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The Trip We Took Without the Kids

WE ALMOST DIDN’T go.

Felt guilty, leaving them.
Felt selfish.
Felt like we should’ve used the money on summer camp or groceries or a new washing machine.

But one night she looked at me, eyes tired, shirt stained, baby monitor crackling on the nightstand, and said, "I miss us."

And that was it.

We booked it.

It wasn’t extravagant.
Just a few hours away.
A little bed-and-breakfast by the water.
No theme parks. No plans. No packing for tiny people with endless needs.

Just two toothbrushes.
A playlist.
And the unspoken agreement that this weekend was about us.

We slept in.
We held hands like we forgot we ever stopped.
We kissed in parking lots.
We ordered appetizers we couldn’t pronounce and desserts we didn’t share.

She wore that dress I love.
I wore cologne she hadn’t smelled since year one.

And we laughed, really laughed.
The kind that echoes.
The kind you forget exists when your life becomes more “to-do list” than love story.

We talked about the kids, of course.

Missed them.
Worried a little.

But we also talked about dreams we’d put on pause.
Old memories we almost lost.
New things we still wanted to try, like pottery, or paddleboarding, or ballroom dancing on weeknights.

She told me she still felt like herself around me.
I told her I’d never stopped seeing the girl I fell in love with, even when she forgot how to look for her.

The last night, we sat on the porch with drinks in hand, legs tangled under a blanket.
No phones.
Just the sound of water, wind, and the quiet buzz of belonging.

And she said, “This feels like breathing.”

I said, “So let’s never hold our breath again.”

The next morning, we packed up.

Texted the sitter.
Drove home with coffee and crumbs in our laps.

Back to the chaos.
Back to the toys on the floor and cereal stuck to the table and voices yelling “Mom!” from every room.

But this time?

We carried something with us.

A little more light.
A little more us.