“Your sister’s family gets the guest room. Your kids can sleep on the floor.” Mom tossed two sleeping bags at my six-year-old. My sister laughed. “Should’ve booked a hotel.” I looked at my children kneeling, whispered, “Pack your things, babies,” and we left at 11 p.m. Three days later, Mom discovered what I quietly canceled.

“Your sister’s family gets the guest room. Your kids can sleep on the floor.” Mom tossed two sleeping bags at my six-year-old. My sister laughed. “Should’ve booked a hotel.” I looked at my children kneeling, whispered, “Pack your things, babies,” and we left at 11 p.m. Three days later, Mom discovered what I quietly canceled.

Two sleeping bags.

That’s what my mother pulled from the hallway closet, the cheap kind, the ones with cartoon dinosaurs on the outside that smelled like basement and mothballs. She didn’t hand them to me. She tossed them.

One landed at my six-year-old’s feet.

The other hit the floor next to my four-year-old, who picked it up and hugged it like a gift, because she didn’t know any better.

My sister watched from the guest room doorway, one hand on the frame, and laughed. “Should’ve booked a hotel.”

I counted to three.

I always count to three.

Let me back up two hours, because you need to understand what we walked into that night.