Ezoic
Her husband climbed out of the driver’s side. Ben. Forty. A high school chemistry teacher from outside Atlanta. Tall. Quiet. Glasses. He looked tired and uncomfortable. He gave me a small wave.
Their two kids stumbled out onto the gravel.
Poppy, eight. Long blonde hair. In pajamas with cartoon foxes on them. Clutching a stuffed rabbit.
And Jonah, five. Curly brown hair. Half asleep. Clutching a stuffed shark.
Ezoic
Then came the luggage.
Four enormous suitcases. Hard-shell. Matching. The big ones. The kind you take on a two-week trip to Europe.
Two heavy Yeti coolers.
A folding crib, even though nobody in the family was young enough to need a crib.
Beach chairs. Plastic buckets. Shovels. Boogie boards. A beach umbrella. Toys. Grocery bags. A box of wine. A case of Diet Coke.
Ezoic
Enough supplies to occupy a small vacation rental for a month.
I looked at the luggage.
Then I looked at my mother.
