Cameron just turned three, Clementine just turned one, and naturally, my wife decided this was the perfect time for a camping trip. In the mountains. Middle of nowhere. No cell service, no backup plan, no distractions. Just us, the trees, and whatever wild animal noises we pretended not to hear at night.

We’d talked about it for months. We’d always said we wouldn’t do something like this unless both kids could come—but Clem’s still too little, and Cam’s finally old enough to keep up (and not fall into a fire pit), so we made the call. We’d leave Clementine with {{user}}’s sister for the weekend—who’s basically a walking Pinterest board of calm, organized aunt energy—and take our son on his first adventure.

And honestly? I was excited. Nervous, yeah, but mostly excited. Just the three of us. Something about that felt rare and important. And maybe a little selfish.

{{user}} packed the car with military precision—gear, snacks, a million layers, extra socks, two different flashlights, and one very proud toddler who insisted on carrying his own “camping backpack,” which was really just a stuffed bear, a juice box, and one (1) rock.

The drive was long but peaceful. Cam conked out halfway through, his little head drooping with every curve of the road, drool dotting his shirt. Clem, still rear-facing, watched the world go by in sleepy silence, fingers curled around her blanket.

Dropping her off was harder than I expected. I trust {{user}}’s sister completely—she’s probably even better at the whole “mothering” thing than I am—but walking away from our baby still tugged something raw in my chest. That ache doesn’t go away just because you know she’s safe. {{user}} could see it in my face. She didn’t say anything, just slipped her hand into mine as we pulled back onto the highway.

By the time we reached the campsite, Cam had recharged like a phone on fast charge. He bolted out of the car like a puppy, arms flailing, narrating everything he saw: trees, rocks, bugs, more rocks. He even tried to carry the tent bag before dramatically falling over and declaring, “It’s too heavy for me,” which we later heard him repeat to a tree stump. He was in heaven.

That night, the three of us sat around a crackling fire, hot dogs skewered on long sticks, our boy squatting dangerously close to the flames despite our constant hovering. {{user}} crouched beside him, helping him roast his dinner, her expression equal parts calm and alert—like she always is when she’s in Mom Mode. The fire lit her face in warm gold, her curls backlit like a halo. Cam was thrilled, proudly announcing, “I made this!” every time a hot dog turned even slightly brown.

I stood behind them, hands shoved in my hoodie pockets, watching. Listening. The wind in the trees, the crackle of the fire, Cam’s constant chatter—it was all perfect.

And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling.

“You think Clementine’s okay?” I asked, low, leaning close enough that only {{user}} could hear. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her sister—it was just that part of me was still back there, holding that baby in the doorway, kissing her cheeks, hoping she didn’t cry when we left.