The night before our first real family vacation, my husband came home with his leg in a cast.

For most of our marriage, vacations were something other people did. Other families—the kind who didn’t spend Sunday nights at the kitchen table with a calculator and a stack of bills, deciding which one could wait. There was never extra. There was only making it to next month.

So when my husband and I both got promoted within weeks of each other, it felt unreal. We sat at the table while our twin girls colored between us, and I finally said it out loud.“What if we actually go somewhere?”

He smiled like he was afraid it would vanish if he spoke too loudly. “Like… a real vacation?”

For the first time ever, we planned one. Florida. Beachfront hotel. Kids’ activities with names like Explorer Club and Ocean Day. I clicked “confirm” on a small spa package and felt guilty and thrilled at the same time. I checked the reservation emails obsessively, counting down the days like a child. The girls squealed every morning when I crossed another square off the calendar.I didn’t realize how badly I needed the break until I had something to look forward to.

Then, the night before we were supposed to leave, he came home late. I heard the door, then a heavy clatter against the wall. When I stepped into the hallway, he was standing there on crutches, his leg wrapped in a thick white cast.

He said a woman had clipped him with her car. Low speed. He was fine.

I cried instantly, wrapped my arms around him, shaking with relief and fear. I told him we’d cancel everything. I wasn’t leaving him like this.