It’s been thirty-four days since I slept in my own bed. I didn’t intend to be gone this long, I just didn’t know how easy it could be to peel dirty camp clothes off children and send them directly through a spin-cycle that spits them out thirty minutes later free of dirt and halfway to dry. I hadn’t considered that when grandparents are around to serve bowls of ice cream and squirt whipped cream into the open bird-mouths of my children, there’s the possibility of bike rides with the person I married and would still, most days, like to spend some time with. I didn’t pause to predict that sea air and sunshine and my own legs pumping the pedals of an old bike would give me the time and confidence to contemplate changing my entire business model; hadn’t quite calculated that the summer camp allowing me the quiet to figure it all out would cost our family less than half of the ones in the city.
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