Part 1
When my dad said we were going camping for the summer, I thought it was going to be like the commercials—fireflies in mason jars, roasting marshmallows, laughing in a big tent under the stars.
I was ten years old. I believed everything he said.
It was the first week of June when he packed our clothes into trash bags instead of suitcases. I remember watching him tie the tops tight with grocery-store twine, my Spider-Man backpack already stuffed with notebooks and my only hoodie.
“Why trash bags?” I asked.
“Because we’re roughing it this year,” he said with a wink. “Camping is about being simple.”
I nodded like that made sense.
We didn’t bring a tent.
We drove until the highway signs disappeared and the road narrowed into something that looked forgotten. Trees leaned toward the asphalt like they were listening. Dad pulled into a dusty clearing near the edge of a state forest and shut off the engine.
“This is it,” he said.
I waited for him to pop the trunk and pull out the tent poles.
Instead, he folded the front seats forward.
That first night, we slept in the car.
He said the tent was “on backorder.”
I believed him.
The First Lie That Felt Like Adventure
At first, it was kind of fun. We cooked hot dogs on a little camping stove he borrowed from a coworker. We washed up in a creek that was cold enough to make my teeth chatter. At night, we told ghost stories while bugs smacked into the windshield like tiny stars.
I told my friends I was spending the summer in the wilderness.
They said I was lucky.
Dad kept calling it a “break from normal life.” He said it was good for us to unplug. No TV. No bills. No stress.
What I didn’t know was that our apartment door already had a red sticker on it from the sheriff’s office.
What I didn’t know was that my dad hadn’t quit his job—he’d been fired three months earlier.
What I didn’t know was that camping doesn’t usually involve parking behind closed gas stations so nobody calls the cops.
The Rules I Didn’t Question
Every adventure has rules. Dad made them sound official.
- Never answer questions from strangers.
- If anyone asks where we live, say “on the road.”
- If a cop knocks on the window, stay quiet.
I thought these were camping rules.
He said it was about safety. “Some people don’t like campers,” he told me.
I memorized those rules better than my multiplication tables.
The Night I Realized We Were Poorer Than Everyone Else
One afternoon we drove into town because Dad said we needed groceries. We walked into a big supermarket with bright lights and clean floors that smelled like soap and strawberries.
I picked up a box of Pop-Tarts and put it in the cart.
Dad took it out and put it back.
“Those are luxury food,” he said gently.
Then he replaced them with a bag of rice and two cans of beans.
That was when I started to feel the knot in my stomach.
Other kids’ carts were full of cereal boxes with cartoon tigers and frozen pizzas with smiling families on the front. Ours had rice, beans, peanut butter, and bread that was already on clearance.
At checkout, his card got declined.
The cashier stared at the screen. Dad stared at the counter. The line behind us got longer and louder.
“Try again,” Dad said.
Declined.
He pulled crumpled bills from his pocket and counted them twice with shaking hands.
We put back the peanut butter.
That night, he told me it was all part of the adventure.
But adventures aren’t supposed to feel embarrassing.
The Bathroom That Became Our Living Room
By July, the novelty was gone.
It was hot. The car smelled like sweat and old fries. My clothes never really dried, no matter how long we hung them from tree branches. Dad stopped making jokes.
Most days, he dropped me off at the public library so I could use the bathroom, drink water, and sit in the air conditioning.
“Just read until I get back,” he said.
Sometimes he didn’t come back until closing time.
I learned how to brush my teeth in library bathrooms. How to wash my hair in a sink without flooding the floor. How to nap sitting up in a plastic chair without anyone noticing.
I also learned that librarians look at kids differently when they come in every day alone.
The Night the Truth Almost Slipped Out
One afternoon, a woman approached me while I was reading in the children’s section.
“You here with your mom?” she asked kindly.
“No, just camping,” I said automatically.
She smiled. “That sounds fun. Where are you camping?”
“Uh… all over,” I said.
She tilted her head. Adults do that when they’re trying to see through you.
“Well, if you ever need anything, sweetie, you can tell one of us, okay?”
I nodded, but my heart was hammering so hard I thought she could hear it.
I didn’t know why telling the truth felt like something dangerous.
When School Started Anyway
In August, Dad bought me a backpack from a thrift store and told me I’d be starting school on Monday.
“But we’re camping,” I said.
He rubbed his face like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “You can still go to school while we camp.”
I didn’t argue.
The school asked for an address. Dad wrote down our old apartment.
I didn’t correct him.
Every morning, I changed in the gas station bathroom before class. I brushed my hair with my fingers. I wore the same sneakers every day, even when it rained and they never dried.
Kids started to notice.
One boy asked why I always smelled like smoke. A girl wrinkled her nose when I sat next to her. The teacher asked if everything was okay at home.
I said yes.
I always said yes.
The Word I Didn’t Know Yet
One night in September, we were parked behind a grocery store when a security guard knocked on the window.
“You can’t sleep here,” he said flatly.
Dad started the engine without looking at him.
As we drove away, I finally asked the question that had been living in my throat for months.
“When do we go back to the apartment?”
He didn’t answer right away.
The road was dark, and the dashboard clock blinked 11:42 like it was broken.
“We don’t have an apartment anymore,” he said.
I stared at him. “So… where do we live?”
He swallowed. “In the car. For now.”
I didn’t know the word homeless yet.
But I knew camping wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
End of Part 1
I was ten years old when I finally learned the truth.
We weren’t camping.
We weren’t on a road trip.
We weren’t “roughing it.”
We were homeless.
The night my dad said the word out loud, it felt like the world tilted. Suddenly every weird rule made sense—why I had to change in gas station bathrooms, why I couldn’t invite friends over, why he panicked every time a police car drove past.
I started noticing things I had trained myself not to see.
How other kids complained about their rooms being too small while I slept curled up in the back seat.
How teachers talked about homework at the kitchen table while I did mine under a flickering streetlight.
How my dad skipped meals but said he “wasn’t hungry.”
I didn’t tell anyone. Not my friends. Not my teachers. Not even my grandma, who lived three states away and thought we were having “the summer of a lifetime.”
But then winter came.
Sleeping in a car in July is uncomfortable.
Sleeping in a car in December is survival.
One night, I woke up shaking so hard I couldn’t feel my fingers. Dad wrapped me in his jacket and whispered apologies into my hair like it was his fault the whole world had failed us.
And that was the night I realized something even worse than being homeless.
My dad was breaking—slowly, quietly, right in front of me.
I had spent months believing he was strong enough to fix everything. That he had a plan.
In Part 2, I’ll tell you what finally happened the night I stopped pretending everything was okay… the secret I told at school that changed our lives forever… and the decision I made that no ten-year-old should ever have to make.
