For the next few days, at least, I won’t have to listen to his footsteps moving around the house, dreading him walking into whatever room I’m in.
Still, obligation is a hard habit to break, so I grab the phone and type anyway.
Arrived safely in Saltspray Cove. Camp is beautiful. Sadie is settling in. Hope you’re okay.
I stare at the message before sending it, then do.
Matt won’t reply for hours, maybe not at all, and I can’t find it in me to care.
The truth is, our marriage ended the moment our daughter died from SIDS. The moment the world split into before and after it happened.
We tried to survive it at first. And when it was safe to try for another baby, Matt convinced me to. But it never worked. Each month was a new disappointment. And all the while, I knew something Matt didn’t.
I had been taking contraceptive pills without telling him.
The moment our Amelia was gone, I knew I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t live through that kind of pain and emotional overwhelm again. And I did everything I could to prevent it.
Matt found the pills by accident, a year ago, in a small plastic pack tucked into a coat pocket I’d forgotten to empty. He filed for divorce three days later.
My phone buzzes. It’s a message from the man I’ve been seeing.
Let me know when you’re free. We can meet.
I don’t answer yet.
Orientation is held in a large open room overlooking the ocean, its glass walls wide open so the sea air drifts in freely. Plants spill from every corner. Ferns, palms, and long trailing vines wrapping around wooden beams.
The sea stretches out beyond the windows, endless and blue, the waves rolling in slowly.
By the time I arrive, the children are already seated on woven cushions—eight in total—arranged in neat rows on the floor of polished stone.
Each of the teenagers is dressed the same, in blue jeans and pastel T-shirts that match the colors of the buildings. A clean and simple uniform.
The weird thing is that their phones are next to them even though before coming here we were told they would be taken until departure day, so they can be fully present. I was glad the adults are allowed to keep theirs.
Near the entrance, a long wooden table holds a clear, empty plastic box.
Less than a minute later, Megan points to it. “It’s time to let go of your phones for the duration of your stay. Please put all the devices in the box and return to your cushions.”
One by one, the teenagers approach it without groaning or bargaining. They don’t even attempt to secretly send off last-minute texts.
They simply drop their phones in and return to their places without a word.
Sadie goes third. She hesitates for half a second, then places her phone inside before turning away. When she sits again, her shoulders relax, as if something heavy just slid off them.
When they are all done, Megan steps forward barefoot. “Welcome. This space is about complete presence.” She gestures for everyone to close their eyes. “Place one hand on your chest,” she continues, demonstrating. “Feel your breath.”
The room grows quiet except for the sound of the ocean and synchronized inhalations.
“In through the nose,” Megan continues. “Slowly count to four.”
They all comply.
“Now hold.”
They do as they are told.
“Now breathe out through the mouth longer than the inhale.”
