Three little heads peek out from our worn blanket as sunlight warms our makeshift campsite behind the rest area. “Daddy, can we make s’mores tonight?” Toby asks, still believing this is the greatest camping trip ever. I ruffle his hair instead of explaining that the marshmallows ran out days ago, along with most of our money.
Every morning I call shelters while the boys play “explorers,” their laughter covering the tremor in my voice as yet another facility says they’re full. Their mother’s goodbye note sits heavy in my pocket, the half-empty pill bottle a constant worry. But for now, they’re happy – catching grasshoppers and declaring our air mattress “the best bed ever.”
When Micah whispers in his sleep that he prefers this to the motel, I realize our game can’t last. But before I can find the words, salvation arrives in flour-dusted hands. Jean doesn’t offer pity with her thermos of hot chocolate; she offers understanding from her own time living in a church van.
Her farm becomes our sanctuary – where my boys collect eggs from chickens and I rebuild my dignity fixing fences. The night we move into our tiny duplex, I tuck them in with the same camping story, but now it’s true: “This is our greatest adventure yet.” And when another desperate father appears at our door months later, I finally understand – rock bottom wasn’t an ending, but solid ground to help others stand.
