I hadn’t seen my son, Caleb, in over a month. His mom and I had divorced, and life pulled us in different directions. So when I suggested a weekend camping trip in the woods, I thought it might mend the distance — bring back some of what we’d lost.
But things didn’t go as planned.
I drove miles, the quiet between us stretched tight. When we arrived at Megan’s place, her new husband Evan greeted me with a smile and an offer of cookies — friendly, but it only reminded me of how much things had changed.
Caleb appeared with a stiff greeting and a packed bag already in hand — no warmth, no enthusiasm. His mother gave me his gear as if she’d been counting down until I left.
The drive to the campsite was tense. Every attempt at small talk hit a wall. He answered me with one-word replies and put his earbuds in, shutting me out completely.
Finally at the remote site, surrounded by towering trees and silence thicker than anywhere else, I tried to spark some old memories — stories of past trips, baby raccoons, shared laughs.
But none of it landed. He snapped at me. “You weren’t even there before,” he said, pitching the sleeping bags with irritation. “Now you expect this to fix everything?”
His words hit harder than I expected, slicing through the hope I’d brought with me. Before I could respond, he stormed into the trees — disappearing into the dark woods.
As the sun set and shadows stretched, I called his name again and again. Just as I started into the forest after him, I heard something — not quite an echo, but a voice that sounded like mine saying his name back to me.
I grabbed my flashlight and plunged into the trees. I followed his footprints until they faded. The forest was enormous and silent — unnervingly so — until I found him at the bottom of a hidden gully, shaken but alive.
“Something chased me,” he said. “I heard someone calling me — but it wasn’t you.” His eyes were too wide, haunted by the dark and the echoing woods.
We scrambled back toward the campsite, every rustle and whisper of night amplifying fear. When we finally reached the fire’s glow, I scooped him up and held him close.
We stayed by the flames until the sounds of the forest disappeared. In the quiet, I told him I understood — that I wanted to be present, truly present, not just a distant memory.
He looked at me, tired and unsure, and said, “Maybe we can start over.”
That night, under the stars and beside the dying embers of the fire, something between us shifted. We weren’t perfect, and our lives weren’t simple. But we began again — not just as father and son, but as two people trying to rebuild something lost in the darkness.
