REWRITING FAMILY

A long drive, two crying children, and everything we left behind

I’ve been driving for four hours. A trip that would normally take two and a half, maybe three. I’m only halfway there. In the back seat, my children are crying. One because he doesn’t want to be strapped into his car seat. The other because he just wants to arrive.

The sound builds inside me, louder and louder. I press the accelerator. Turn up the radio. There’s no one in the passenger seat. There’s only one adult in this car. And that adult is me.

I’ve already stopped twice. Now I’m counting down the miles to the next rest stop. There, they can run, stretch their legs, burn off some of this energy. There, for a few brief moments, the silence comes back.

I’ve tried everything. Singing. Making up stories. Driving with one hand while reaching back with the other, holding up a phone with their favorite videos. Snacks. Toys. Conversation. Even tapping rhythms on the roof. It always works… for a moment. Until they remember their mom. And then it starts again, both of them, in chorus: “Mommy, mommy.”

The next rest stop appears ahead. I pull off. Park. Get out. Take them out one by one. We head into the bathroom, the accessible one. More space for the three of us. The older one pees. The younger one stretches up, trying to reach the sink.

I change a diaper. Hold onto two small, restless bodies that don’t stop moving. Then food. A sandwich each. Fresh orange juice to share. We sit down, the three of us.

Outside, it’s already dark. In the glass in front of us, I catch our reflection. Three figures. Mine. And my children’s. Next to us, another reflection. A family of four. A mother, a father, two kids. Whole. I look away. Because that glass doesn’t just reflect the present. It reflects everything that’s no longer there. We were four. Now we are three.

We play a little longer. They still have energy. I don’t. I feel the looks. From strangers. Those looks that carry both pity and admiration. And I want neither. So I pick them up. One in each arm. Carry them back to the car. The youngest cries. Kicks. Asks to nurse. I sit in the back seat with him for a while. Holding him. Holding the other’s hand. Until they calm down.

Back on the road. A few minutes later, the crying starts again. My head feels heavy. My body aches. I call my dad. The moment he hears his voice, the baby falls asleep. Just like that. As if everything is okay. My dad talks to the older one. Tells him a made-up story. For half an hour. And for the first time in hours, there is silence in the back seat. I can drive. I can breathe. My children needed me.  And there were moments when I simply couldn’t give any more without risking too much. So someone showed up for me. My dad. My anchor.

I feel guilty. But I also feel grateful.

We make it home. They’re already asleep. And I go to bed too. Still learning this new life. Where even the simplest things aren’t simple anymore. And where, sometimes, the hardest part is looking at what still exists without getting lost in what’s gone.

We were four. Now we are three. And some days, that weighs more than any five-hour drive. But we keep going. Even when it hurts. Even when we’re exhausted. Even when we’re learning how to live a life we didn’t choose but one that is still, somehow, ours.