My mother always said vacations were for making memories, but most of my childhood memories were of watching other people leave without me. The night everything finally snapped, I was standing at my kitchen counter in Chicago with my passport open, a glass of iced tea sweating onto a coaster shaped like the American flag. Warren’s laptop glowed on the counter, the confirmation email for a two‑week villa in Tuscany still open.
Down the hall, a leather‑bound photo album sat on a shelf, the kind with a tiny brass latch like the ones my mom used to line up on our living room bookcase. By the time that album arrived in my mailbox, I’d already been left out of more family trips than I could count. By the time I booked a five‑star, all‑expenses‑paid vacation with my new family, the people who did take me, my parents lost their minds.
I looked at the Tuscany booking, thought of those albums, and made myself a promise: this time, I wasn’t staying home to keep anyone else comfortable. The first time they drove away without me, I was eight. School had just let out for summer, and I’d spent weeks drawing palm trees and cartoon waves in the margins of my spelling worksheets.
Florida. I’d heard the word so many times it sounded like magic. My older sister Lydia had a purple suitcase laid open on her bed, throwing bikinis and flip‑flops into it while I watched from the doorway, my own duffel bag still folded flat on my mattress like a joke.
Mom walked past me three times that afternoon, arms loaded with travel‑size shampoo and sunscreen, never once suggesting I start packing. “Where’s my suitcase?” I finally asked Dad as he hoisted a cooler into the trunk of our minivan. A faded flag magnet clung crookedly to the back bumper.
He didn’t turn around. “You’re staying with Grandma Ruth this week, kiddo.”
I blinked. “I thought we were going to Florida.”
“We are.” He slammed the trunk, dusting his hands off like the conversation was over.
“You get carsick, remember? Last year, driving to Ohio? You threw up twice.
Your mom and I talked, and we think it’s better if you sit this one out.”
I’d gotten sick once on that Ohio trip, and only because Lydia had eaten an entire bag of sour gummies and spent an hour breathing her candy rot breath in my face. Even at eight, I could see the excuse was stretched thinner than the elastic on Grandma’s old sweatpants. But Grandma Ruth lived forty minutes away, and apparently that was close enough to count as family.
