We drove away from Silver Brook that night without finishing dinner and without saying goodbye to anyone still sitting around that table. The highway stretched ahead under quiet stars and Miles eventually fell asleep in the passenger seat.
Life after that evening slowly began to change in ways I did not expect.
Miles and I started creating our own traditions instead of trying to squeeze ourselves into gatherings that left us feeling small. We took short trips across the country whenever school vacations arrived, and every journey felt like building a new memory strong enough to replace an old one.
One spring we camped beneath the enormous skies of Texas, where Miles lay on the grass and tried counting stars until he lost track somewhere past a hundred. Another year we spent a long weekend in New Orleans, and he laughed after biting into his first powdered beignet because sugar covered his nose.
“These taste like clouds,” he declared happily while brushing powder from his jacket.
During a summer road trip we drove north through Colorado to visit his father in Durango, and along the way we stopped at mountain viewpoints where Miles stretched his arms wide toward the peaks.