Caleb had just turned six. He was thoughtful and gentle, the kind of child who still needed an extra hug before bed. When we told him about the trip, his face lit up. Staying with older cousins made him feel brave and important.
I smiled for him, but inside, doubt lingered.
He had never spent more than one night away from us. He still slept with his favorite stuffed fox tucked under his chin. He still padded into our room after a nightmare. Two weeks suddenly felt enormous.
Daniel reassured me. “Mom has always managed the kids,” he said. “He’ll grow from this.”
Against my instincts, I agreed.
I packed carefully — soft pajamas, his worn storybook, the stuffed fox he refused to leave behind. Before he left, I knelt down and told him he could call me anytime, no matter what.
“I know,” he said, trying to sound brave.
When the car disappeared down the street, the house felt strangely quiet. That evening, I kept glancing toward his room, half-expecting to hear his voice. Daniel reminded me that letting go, even a little, is part of parenting.
