I don’t know about for you but for me there are some days that don’t announce themselves as anything special until you’re already halfway through them, and yesterday in Hobart was exactly like that. The time with Charlie and Mikalyia will live in my heart until the next time, I’m able to hug my son again.
The drive into Hobart started early, 2am before the day had fully settled into itself, with Charlie texting me like he was trying to solve a mystery he didn’t know he was part of. Charlie kept checking how close we were, laughing through messages as if the distance itself had turned into a game. He didn’t know we were coming at first, not in the beginning, and that alone made the whole morning feel like we were carrying a small surprise wrapped up in time and miles.
Somewhere along the way, I had to call and double-check what he might need, and I’m glad I did because that’s when I realized his glasses were something we absolutely could not forget. But then came the moment that always humbles everything: I had switched purses and left his birth certificate and Social Security card tucked safely in the wrong one. Not lost, just misplaced in that strange way life does when you think you’ve got everything together until you don’t. It turned into one of those quiet internal bargains you make with yourself, knowing you’ll fix it later, even if later feels inconvenient and far away.
When we finally arrived in Hobart, the day shifted into something slower and more real. There was the pickup, the handoff of things he needed, the Aldi Coffee Charlie couldn’t wait to get, and the food he had been waiting on that had come from his dad’s side of things. We stood in the parking lot longer than I expected, just talking in that way families do when they don’t quite know how to stretch time but try anyway.
Getting to the house wasn’t quite how I pictured it. David and I weren’t invited in, and it took a while before anyone came out, after Charlie left to put his stuff in the house. I begin to think Charlie wasn’t coming back out but then David sees Charlie and Mikalyia walking towards us.
As much as I wanted to run and give Charlie a hug I didn’t. I sat in the car, and the parking lot became its own small meeting place where life happened between doors and decisions. After that, we decided a trip to Dollar Tree & Walmart needed to happen before we would leave to come home.
We wandered through Dollar Tree like it was a childhood hallway we both remembered differently. I kept spotting pieces of the past tucked into shelves, little things that made me pause longer than I meant to—those odd, ordinary reminders of when kids are small and everything they love feels big.
Walmart was its own chapter. Chalrie wanted to show me everything, like the store itself had become part of his current world and he needed me to see it through his eyes. We found clearance medicine we probably didn’t need but bought anyway, and socks that made everyone laugh because they didn’t really match anything except personality. Green socks with a playful phrase and ruffled edges, the kind of thing that doesn’t make sense until it does. I picked up Snoopy socks for myself, and David got a shirt because yesterday wasn’t just any day—it was our anniversary, quietly sitting inside everything else that was happening.
Eventually, we made our way back toward Fort Worth, stopping in pieces instead of one long line. There was a small restaurant in Hobart that we tried before leaving, though it didn’t quite land for me the way I wanted it to, and then another stop later where David picked up what he needed while I settled for something simple at McDonald’s. Nothing about the food mattered as much as the fact that we were still moving, still connected, still making our way home together.
Somewhere in all of that, Charlie kept texting, asking for updates like the road needed to report its progress to him every hour. By the time we got back, the messages had stacked up into something almost overwhelming, pages of thoughts and ideas and plans, including his version of why life might make more sense there than anywhere else. It was more conversation than we’ve had in a long time, stretched out over miles and signals and the kind of honesty that only shows up when people are not quite ready to say goodbye.
And still, the ending of the day didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like a pause we didn’t agree to but are living with anyway. There was talk about moving, about jobs, about staying close no matter where “close” ends up being defined. Even after everything settled, even after the road was behind us and the house was quiet again, the messages kept coming in, as if distance itself was something that needed constant reassurance.
By the time I finally sat down and let the day catch up to me, it was clear that the trip had been more than a visit. It was a reminder that family doesn’t always gather in perfect timing or perfect conditions. Sometimes it just happens in parking lots, in store aisles, in short conversations that carry more weight than they should. And sometimes, the best family trips don’t last long enough to feel finished at all.
Thank you,
Glenda, Charlie and David Cates
