“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.

Not the angry kind. Not the kind where someone is waiting for the other person to speak first. The kind where two people both know the same thing and neither needs to prove it.

Ryan’s right hand left the steering wheel and found the console between us, palm up.

I took it. Squeezed once.

He squeezed back.

That was the whole conversation for thirty miles.

Somewhere south of Faribault, Ellie stirred. Her voice came from the back seat, half-asleep, muffled by the sleeping bag pressed against her cheek.

“Mommy, can we keep the dinosaur sleeping bag?”

My chest locked.

Not pain. Something before pain. The way your body braces a half-second before impact, when your muscles know what’s coming but your brain hasn’t caught up.

I watched the mile markers.

Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine.

“Sure, baby. You can keep it.”

She made a small sound, not a word, just contentment, and went back under.

I didn’t look at Ryan. He didn’t look at me.

The wipers squeaked.

Forty-nine. Fifty. Fifty-one.

Rest stop outside Owatonna.

Ryan pulled in without asking. Maybe he needed gas. Maybe he needed me to get out of the car before whatever was building behind my eyes found its way forward.