When my husband, Cameron, left for a business trip with his colleague, I never imagined how much that journey would change our lives. For months, I’d felt the growing distance between us — too many late nights, too many silences that spoke louder than words. When I discovered a shared hotel reservation, my trust cracked. I didn’t scream or accuse him; I simply packed a bag for our son, Ben, and decided to spend a few days with my mother. I thought space might give us both clarity.
But that night, as snow blanketed the roads, Cameron called — his voice trembling with cold and fear. Their car had stalled in the middle of nowhere. The signal was fading, and the storm was closing in fast. Without thinking twice, I grabbed blankets and rushed out with Ben to find them. During the drive, my son confessed something that broke me: he had tampered with the car, hoping his father wouldn’t leave. He was just a child trying to keep his family together. I realized that beneath all our grown-up mistakes, it was our son who had carried the heaviest burden of all.
