Seven months ago, our family left suburban Connecticut for my parents’ isolated lake house in a naïve attempt to reconnect. Life had imploded, or so I thought then. I hoped the change would reset us: a montage of Hallmark moments—card games in candlelight, spontaneous hugs and important, healing chats. What I got was a nuclear holocaust five days after we arrived.
A week ago, the lake house burned to the ground. Our last place of safety. Now, I watch my children huddle together, their faces lit up by our tiny campfire beneath the towering blackness of endless pine forests. I wonder what tomorrow will bring—for the world, but also for my family.
My daughters are so young. They’ve seen so little of life, but far too much. What future can they possibly have? What future can I make for them? I must keep them safe. No matter what lies ahead.
Already I know it’s a promise I don’t have the power to make… but I’ll die trying to keep it.
