The road trip was meant to be fun. It was, for a while. Then the excitement faded, and all that was left was ourselves. Nothing was wrong enough to pull over for. Nothing was wrong enough to justify stopping.
We began in Minnesota, which felt like starting over twice—once at the state line and again at the table with people we were supposed to know better than we did. Family tends to reappear in full, as if no time had passed.
By the time we crossed into South Dakota, we had learned to sit quietly without filling the silence. We stopped when the truck needed gas, when hunger became inconvenient, or when the road called for a stop. We didn’t stop because of what was happening between us. The red Ford carried us west as if nothing inside it was changing.
We hadn’t shared a space this narrow for this long in years—six, to be exact. Long enough to recognise patterns and anticipate moments that needed adjustment. When the cab tightened, I knew where to put my hands. When his jaw clenched, I kept my eyes on the road. We reached South Dakota without incident, which felt like a win.
The truck was my uncle’s. My father bought it back and asked me to drive it to California because he knew I would agree. Obligation moves more cleanly than sentiment. My cousin drove us to the truck; I hadn’t seen him in nearly twenty years. That startled me—how quickly familiarity came back and how little it demanded from me.
It was cold and dark by the time we reached it. Night had already settled over the roads. The engine turned over without hesitation. There’s something stabilising about sitting that high off the ground, about four-wheel drive biting into ice and dirt without complaint. The truck did not need reassurance.
My dad has another truck—an F350—kept away, waiting for an engine I was bringing. He bought it when I was a kid, the same year he got my first horse. Some things settle early and stay.
I drove for a little while, not long. When my partner took over the wheel, I didn’t argue. It was easier to let the road take the pressure than to try and redirect it. The truck kept us moving west.
California revealed itself all at once—rolling hills giving way to concrete, lanes multiplying faster than I could count. It was beautiful in a way that demanded attention I didn’t have. The traffic felt volatile, the rules provisional.
We drove all night to arrive during the day, and by the time we got there, everything in me wanted to stop. Instead, we stayed awake. My father wanted to feed us. We talked longer than we planned to.
Time moved differently with him—loosening, stretching out. He filled in gaps I didn’t know how to ask about and identified protections I hadn’t realised were intentional. California didn’t announce itself as a place of reconciliation. It quietly unfolded through meals that lasted longer than expected and conversations that drifted without conclusion. He cooked as he always has—competently, attentively—moving through the kitchen with the confidence of someone who knows where everything belongs. I watched his hands more than his face. The familiarity settled over me in ways I didn’t voice. Being fed felt less like indulgence and more like confirmation. I hadn’t sat at a dinner table for a meal in years, until that night.
The hours stretched without resistance. He added details I hadn’t thought to ask for and explained decisions I’d lived through without understanding. When he spoke about South Dakota, about moving us quickly, and about what had nearly happened, his tone stayed steady. It wasn’t an apology or a confession. It was information, offered carefully, as if he trusted me to carry it now. I loved him for that restraint. It made me miss him even more, with an intensity that hit me as I sat across from him.
When he talked about South Dakota, it wasn’t a confession. He said it plainly, treating it as a logistical decision that had worked. We had been close to being taken. He moved us quickly. Faulkton came afterwards. I tried to hold onto the information along with what I remembered. It didn’t settle.
Leaving California hurt more than I expected. My father filled the bed with his things while I removed mine. We drove away in a white van with most of the seats torn out. It was free. It was ugly. It had a gas tank big enough to avoid asking questions. I hated it. I was relieved.
Leaving didn’t resolve anything. I carried the weight of what he’d given me and what remained unanswered. The visit brought clarity without comfort, light without relief. When we drove away, I felt fuller yet more uncertain than before; my understanding expanded just enough to make room for new questions. The road accepted the weight without comment.
We picked up the white van together, driving there in the truck one last time. It belonged to a friend of my father’s—a man who had lived inside it long enough to make it livable. There was a narrow bed built into the back, a small kitchen arranged around it, and a dresser wedged into a corner, as if it belonged there.
The van bore the marks of wear: doors that stuck in specific ways, compartments that needed instructions, fixes that only worked if you knew where to press. He demonstrated everything to me. He talked as he worked, filling the space with explanations and history. His apartment was full of signs of care—feathers, sticks, unfinished projects, and tools for making things last. He could no longer drive the van like he used to. I hugged him in exchange for the keys.
We left without ceremony. A hug. An I love you.
We drove through the night again. I wish we hadn’t. The redwoods passed unseen, their outlines barely visible beyond the reach of our headlights. Whatever beauty there was stayed intact, untouched by us.
Oregon should have felt like a new beginning. It didn’t. It felt like a return without restoration. We went for coffee. We checked into the hotel. We stopped at the storage unit and retrieved a small version of our lives—items we had been without for nearly a year.
Joy drove up with Morgan. It was late, and he had school the next day. We went swimming anyway. The pool echoed with sounds that didn’t last. Joy sat nearby, working. After half an hour, they left. Morgan took something with him, and I felt it go.
After Oregon, the pace shifted. We were exhausted in ways food couldn’t fix, and sleep only heightened. Oliver spoke less, and when he did, his words were clipped, simplified to just function. Questions felt like interruptions. Suggestions went unanswered. I learned to stop offering them.
I spent more time looking inward, with a book open on my lap and a notebook resting against the window. Reading gave me a place to rest my eyes, and writing kept my hands busy. The van hummed steadily below us, its engine constant, its interior too bright and too exposed.
We spent two days in Spokane resting. We didn’t do anything or make any plans. We went to the pool once, with the service dog watching from the edge, then we went back to the room. Time moved without asking anything of us.
The hotel room had a tile floor I liked. It stayed cold even as everything else felt overused. We tracked the day by availability—breakfast hours, pool hours, and the hot tub’s closing time. Petrie watched from the edge of the room. Time passed carefully.
Lying in the hotel bed felt like being returned to a proper fit. It stretched out comfortably, with no feet pressed against the footboard and no shoulder hanging over the edge. The mattress held evenly. Thick blankets replaced the mismatched throws I’d been layering for months, their weight steady and predictable. I didn’t need to readjust them every time I moved. The heat stayed exactly where it belonged.
There was a nightstand beside the bed. I carefully placed my medicine on it, lined up the way I liked so the bottle wouldn’t tip over or get lost in the fabric. My journal rested there too, within reach but not demanding to be opened. The lamp clicked on and off smoothly without flickering. I could reach it without sitting up. These were small comforts, but they added up.
I lay on my back and let the ceiling be without analysing it. The room stayed still around me. No drafts brushed my ankles. No unfamiliar sounds demanded explanation. For a while, my body forgot to stay alert. I breathed more deeply than I had in days. Sleep hovered close enough to consider.
Nothing else changed. The tension stayed. The trip waited. But the bed did what it was supposed to do. It held me without complaint. For the length of a night, that was enough. We left Spokane early. Oliver was already irritated, as if the day had started without him. He didn’t speak when we got into the van. Instead, he turned the music on, loud enough to fill the space between us. I watched the road. The hours went by without incident. He turned the volume up until it filled the van, the sound pressing against the windows. I didn’t ask him to turn it down. I didn’t reach for my headphones. I watched the road instead, counting exits I didn’t need and tracking the white line as it slipped under the hood. Minutes passed. Then more. His silence was heavy, a shape I knew how to navigate around. I adjusted my seat. I pushed my bag farther under my feet. I relearned how to take up less space without vanishing completely.
Hours passed. My head throbbed in sync with his music. I couldn’t find a comfortable position. Every position felt like I took up too much space. Another song shifted somewhere past an exit we didn’t need. The attitude didn’t change. At some point, existing became painful. I spoke incorrectly. I was wrong. I was in a situation where I couldn’t hide anywhere but in my mind.
So I wrote. I filled a notebook on the way back alone. Whether it was stories, accounts, or just random doodles, I couldn’t tell you. But the pain in my wrist was better than the pain of an empty conversation.
Idaho Falls was my idea. There was a hot spring there I’d wanted to see for years, and we agreed to spend a day sightseeing. Oliver drove. Before visiting the springs, we stopped to explore a cave just outside town. The entrance was low and unassuming, easy to overlook if you weren’t paying attention. Inside, the temperature dropped sharply. The air remained still. The walls curved inward, close enough to touch without feeling crowded.
We brought the dog with us, zipped into her pack, her weight familiar on my shoulder. She stayed quiet and alert, her ears lifting at sounds I couldn’t place. Our flashlight cast a narrow cone through the darkness, revealing uneven rock, layered spray paint, and names and dates left behind by people who hadn’t stayed long.
The ground shifted beneath me, loose stones giving way. I moved cautiously, stepping where the light pointed.
The cave didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t echo our voices back at us. It didn’t widen or narrow in ways that felt threatening. I liked how contained it was, how my body knew what to do inside it. The darkness pressed close without closing in. For a while, there was nothing to manage but my footing and the steady sound of our breathing.
When we stepped outside, the light felt harsh, almost rude. We headed toward the hot springs, already running late. By the time we arrived, the parking lot was full. People stood close together, their voices loud and clear. We sat in the van with the engine idling. Neither of us said much. Then we left.
The next morning, we pointed the van east and started home.
Montana was stunning, which made everything else easier to overlook. The land stretched out into cliffs and sky, the population thinning until the road seemed temporary. The high desert surprised me, then made sense. The weather was gentle for that time of year, unexpectedly kind. I watched it pass without demanding anything in return. I’ve always loved Yellowstone. I was born in Montana, but I wasn’t raised there. We drove through my birthplace without stopping—the first time I’d seen it since I was two months old. I briefly wondered if my biological father still lived there. I’ve never met him. My dad entered my life when I was young enough that I didn’t have to consciously process the change. He has been my dad ever since. The thought came and went with the road below us. We listened only to Oliver’s music. Mine stayed silent. The van was filled with sounds I hadn’t chosen, and I let it. Our attention focused on the numbers on the screen—the hours remaining, the miles left. Each time we crossed a time zone, the fatigue seemed to increase, as if it could layer on.
Montana gave us space to keep going. It didn’t ask us to decide anything. I missed our animals with a sharpness that surprised me, the thought of them waiting at home tightening something in my chest. Coming back meant friction—people, history, expectations—but it also meant them. The longing pulled in both directions. We kept driving.
South Dakota was an experience I recognised immediately. I grew up in parts of it— enough to know which areas would endure and which would cut deep. Most of the places that shaped me originated there. So did most of the damage.
Driving through SoDak in the winter brought back memories of when I started to hate winter. My days were spent breaking up ice chunks in water tanks and catching horses when the fence shorted out. I was working the moment I got off the school bus. I was the one outside in the below-freezing weather, blanketing the horses during every storm. Mother was never proud of what I managed to accomplish. Dad was so far gone, literally, that he didn’t know what was happening from day to day.
West River still preserves the same open beauty as Montana. The Black Hills rise without apology, a wild shape that doesn’t seek understanding. We watched the roadside shoulders for signs of movement—elk, bear, a mountain lion crossing once and then gone. Nothing showed up. The land remained untouched, offering no proof.
East River grew colder again, a familiarity that tightened my jaw. We drove through Faulkton—the town that hurt me the most—and stopped for gas. Standing there, I felt the small town pressure settle over me, like eyes lingering when you almost belong. I kept my hands busy, waiting for the pump to click.
We stopped at the Pink Mansion. I took a picture for Oliver’s mom, feeling it was important to document something neutral. I asked if we could stop in Cresbard—another town, another meaningful place—but we missed the turn. Then we missed the next one. The road offered no correction.
The cold returned completely, biting like I remembered. The state did, too. We kept driving.
Crossing back into Minnesota almost brought me to tears. The sign appeared, and the remaining distance shrank to just a few hours. Home was within reach, yet we still couldn’t rest. We had been living in a rundown RV on the property, but winter had already made the decision for us. Instead, we headed to the basement at Oliver’s mom’s house. We hated it, and we knew we would. That realisation tainted the drive before it even finished. We were already listing what needed to be unloaded, assembled, or negotiated. We were already preparing for the friction it would bring.
The animals were the only ones unaffected by our return. All three cats slept pressed against us that night. The dogs settled nearby, close enough to sense our presence. Their relief seemed almost physical.
The rest of the house grew tense. Tension built between Oliver and me, and between Patty and Chad, until the space itself felt uncomfortable. We moved around each other carefully, not lingering or sharing stories from the road. The trip ended without any of it being shared. We were home. Nothing had been resolved. Everything continued.
