When my mother-in-law proposed that our son spend two weeks at her annual summer gathering for the grandchildren, I paused longer than I expected. On paper, it sounded generous. Her large lakeside home, fresh air, cousins running wild, a break from screens and routines. She described it as a tradition — something each grandchild experienced once they were “old enough.”
My husband, Daniel, spoke about those summers like they were sacred chapters of his childhood. His tone always softened when he described canoe races at dusk, secret jokes whispered after lights out, and the feeling of belonging to something bigger than himself. Listening to him, I almost convinced myself it would be magical for our son too.
Caleb had just turned six. He was thoughtful and gentle, the kind of child who still needed an extra hug before bed. When we told him about the trip, his face lit up. Staying with older cousins made him feel brave and important.
I smiled for him, but inside, doubt lingered.
