The Road Trip

Tabitha’s phone rang, the harsh beat of Another One Bites the Dust blaring from her purse. She winced, fumbling for it—why that ringtone today? The humid morning air hung heavy around their suburban Connecticut home. The red GMC Yukon sat in the driveway, its trunk wide open, waiting.

John loaded the last suitcase, his movements deliberate. "That should do it," he muttered, slamming the trunk. The sound reverberated, unsettling.

Tabitha checked her lists—snacks sorted, backpacks color-coded, every zipper double-checked. Max, Oliver, and Nora were outside, the boys battling with foam swords, their laughter shrill. Nora narrated from the steps, oblivious to the tension in the air.

John grinned as he scooped up their swords. "Better here than in the backseat in Ohio."

Tabitha’s unease lingered, but she focused on the details. It was her way of keeping everything together. Her grandmother, Gigi, used to call her “dangerously prepared” with a soft smile—both a compliment and a warning.

When the last bag was stowed, Tabitha clapped. "Time to load up!" The kids ran for the car, still laughing. John locked up, and the Yukon roared to life.

As they hit the highway, John asked, "Do you think your sister’s okay with us showing up early?"

"I hope so," Tabitha replied, voice wavering. "She’s been caring for Gigi alone. It’s a lot." She paused, then added, "My mom's there too, but... not really."

John squeezed her hand, grounding her. "I know Gigi’s still here," she whispered, "but I already miss her. It’s like she’s slipping away."

The kids were quiet, plugged into their screens. The hum of the tires filled the silence.

Tabitha’s mind wandered to memories of the cabin—Gigi’s voice calling her in at dusk, the pine-scented air. But those memories were tinged with shadows now. She pushed them down.

"I just hope," she murmured, eyes on the road, "whoever gets the cabin keeps it the same. Not just a house. A place that remembers us."

John squeezed her hand. "She’d be proud of you."

Tabitha smiled, though it felt fragile. "I hope so. I just... feel like this trip is going to be different. Like it’s the last one that’ll ever feel the same."

The Yukon pressed on, the gray highway stretching ahead toward the cabin—and whatever else was waiting there.