Page 96 of Every Beautiful Mile

I can survive two weeks without them just like they survived the last year, watching me move through this world like a ghost. I can do this.

I’ll still be in Bar Harbor. The puffins and whales and lobsters won’t care if I’m alone or not—though now I realize I don’t care about most of what we had planned. It was for us, not me.

I watch Marin and Finn as they point to different pages and talk wildly. They are growing up. As much as I need time with them, they need time without me.

There’s no choice. I celebrate with them.

“It says here you have to dig a hole for your toilet.” I wave the pamphlet at them and smile genuinely. “I can’t wait to hear those stories.”

***

It's a scramble to get everything done the next day.

Large backpacks, canteens, lighters, several pairs of socks, good hiking shoes, some sort of all-in-one pan thing, and a pocketknife.

Finn will thrive, I know that, but I still can’t believe Marin is going through with this.

“Are you sure about this, Marin?” I ask in the sock aisle.

She laughs. “Mom, I know, I just… it’s hard to explain. We are going to come back from this jaunt across the country, and everyone will see instantly how different you are. Not just your clothes and your hair, but you. You’re happy. You went out on a date and made cocktails. Even Finny is less of an asshole. But me? I haven’t done anything. I’m still just happy Marin that loves everything. I just want… I want to push myself the way you have.”

Her eyes search my face for approval—I give it to her wholeheartedly and wrap my arms around her in a hug. “I love you, Marin, always and forever,” I say into her hair. “I hope you don’t get eaten by a bear.”

She laughs then drops four pairs of socks in the basket.

***

The visitor’s center for Acadia National Park is buzzing with teens and parents at 8AM.

“Take a picture, Mom,” Marin says. “Finny and I at our last ever summer camp.”

She laughs, and Finn rolls his eyes as she hooks an arm around his neck.

After signing a few papers at the registration desk, I give them both hugs.

“Please don’t cry, Mom. I can see it coming from a mile away.”

Finn’s voice is a groan as his eyes dart around to make sure nobody sees me getting emotional.

“I would never.” I say, water already lining my eyes. “I love you both, I’m proud of you, and I’ll see you in two weeks.” I grab Finn’s arm. “Take care of her, okay?”

He smiles, giving me another hug, and lightly says, “Maybe.”

I laugh despite the emptiness I feel.

“Love you, Mom!” They call as they disappear into a sea of teens ready to set off on an adventure out in the woods with oversized packs on their backs.

Then, I’m alone.

No kids.

No camper.

No plan.

I remember when my kids were demon-driven toddlers—I would have given a limb to get time alone. Now the empty house that isn’t mine is so loud with silence I’m scared my ears will bleed. I’ve never known a quiet like this.

I fill the clawfoot tub with steaming hot water, bubbles, and pour myself a glass of breakfast wine.

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