For most of our marriage, a family vacation wasn’t a plan—it was a fantasy. The kind you joke about when you’re staring at a pile of bills on a Sunday night, calculator in hand, hoping the math will magically change. We lived paycheck to paycheck, constantly prioritizing which expense could wait and which absolutely couldn’t. There was no cushion, no wiggle room, just survival.
Then, almost unbelievably, everything shifted. Within weeks of each other, my husband and I both landed promotions. For the first time, breathing felt easier. And for the first time ever, we dared to plan something just for us.
Florida. The ocean. A hotel right on the beach.
I threw myself into the details like they were sacred. Flights booked. Hotel confirmed. A small spa package I checked three times just to make sure it was real. I made a countdown calendar for our twin girls, and every morning they crossed off another square, shrieking about “Ocean Day.”
I didn’t realize how fragile that dream was until the night before we were supposed to leave.
The front door opened late. Too late. I heard metal clatter against the floor and rushed into the hallway—only to find my husband standing there on crutches, his leg wrapped in a thick white cast. My heart dropped straight into my stomach. He told me a car had clipped him on his way to work. He looked exhausted. Shaken.
I didn’t even think about the trip. I just hugged him and cried, already saying we’d cancel everything. But he stopped me.
“No,” he insisted. “Take the girls. The money’s spent. I’ll be fine. I’ll rest.”
Every instinct screamed that something was off—but guilt won. I didn’t want to crush our daughters’ excitement. So the next morning, we left.
Florida was supposed to be paradise. Instead, it felt hollow. I watched my girls laugh in the pool while my chest stayed tight, like I’d abandoned something important behind. Then my phone rang.
Continue reading on the next page…