PART 5 – I Crossed the State Line Before Sunrise, Carrying My Wife’s Photograph and Everything I Had Left

The road ahead was empty.

I drove for hours without turning on the radio.

The bronze truck handled beautifully, but I barely noticed.

My hands stayed on the steering wheel.

Clara's photograph rested on the passenger seat.

Every so often, I glanced toward it.

I wondered what she would have said if she had seen me leaving our son that way.

Would she have told me to turn around?

Would she have reminded me that Garrett was still our boy?

I couldn't answer those questions.

All I knew was that I wasn't going back.

By sunrise, I had crossed the state line.

The sky was pale, and the temperature had dropped.

I stopped at a small roadside station to fill the tank.

The attendant asked whether I was traveling far.

"Far enough," I told him.

He smiled and handed me the receipt.

I paid, got back into the truck, and continued north.

I had no proper destination.

I only knew I wanted mountains.

Clara had always talked about the northern ranges.

She liked the idea of waking up somewhere surrounded by trees, with snow covering the distant peaks.

We had once discussed taking a long trip there after retirement.

That trip never happened.

So I kept driving.

The first night, I slept in the truck.

I parked in a quiet area, locked the doors, and pulled my jacket around myself.

The seat wasn't designed for sleeping.

My back hurt.

But nobody was going to lock me in a basement.

That thought gave me a strange kind of comfort.

The next morning, I bought coffee and a sandwich.

I sat at a small table near the window.

Families came and went.

An older couple shared a newspaper.

A little boy dropped a spoon and laughed when his father picked it up.

I watched them longer than I should have.

Then I finished my coffee.

I had to keep moving.

Two days after leaving Garrett's house, I tried calling him.

I don't know why I expected him to answer.

Perhaps some part of me still believed he would realize what had happened and call to apologize.

I dialed his number.

The call didn't go through.

I tried again.

The same result.

I stared at the screen.

Then I understood.

He had blocked me.

I sat inside the truck for a long time.

There was no message.

No explanation.

Just silence.

I could have called Tiffany.

I could have tried another number.

But what would I have said?

That I was sorry for refusing to give Garrett my truck?

That I wanted permission to return to the basement?

No.

I put the phone away.

For the first time, I accepted that my son might not want me in his life.

That hurt more than I expected.

Still, I had somewhere to go.

Eventually, I reached the northern mountains.

The air was colder there.

The roads wound between thick forests and rocky slopes.

I passed old ranches, small towns, and scattered houses that seemed miles away from everything.

I stopped several times just to look at the scenery.

It was beautiful.

Not the polished kind of beauty you saw in postcards.

It was rough.

The trees grew close together.

The roads were narrow.

The mountains looked enormous against the sky.

I thought Clara would have loved it.

I began asking around about inexpensive places to stay.

I didn't have much interest in renting an apartment.

I wanted something simple.

A small place where I could keep my tools and work without anyone telling me what I was allowed to do.

But decent housing in the area wasn't cheap.

I found a used camper and decided it would do.

It wasn't much.

The walls were thin.

The plumbing needed attention.

The heater made a noise whenever it started.

But it was mine.

I parked it in a quiet area while I looked for somewhere permanent.

The first few nights were difficult.

The cold found its way through every weak seal.

I slept wearing several layers of clothing.

Sometimes I woke up and could see my breath.

I would start the heater, wait for the air to warm, and make coffee.

Then I would sit outside and look toward the mountains.

There was nobody asking me for money.

Nobody telling me to clean the gutters.

Nobody deciding which room I deserved.

I was alone.

But I was free.

And for the first time since Clara died, those two things didn't feel exactly the same.

Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Camper Was Freezing, My Savings Were Limited, and I Had No Idea Whether the Mountains Would Ever Become Home