My name is Cecelia. I’m 30, a single mom of two, and I’ve been exhausted in a way sleep can’t fix. Their father left years ago, so it’s been the three of us against the world—working nonstop, repeating the same routine every day.
Wanting to give my kids something different and happy, I took them camping in a remote forest. The first night was perfect—until the woods went silent and footsteps circled our tent. Someone slowly unzipped it. I froze, holding my kids, until a lost, freezing man apologized from outside. His name was Jeff. I let him warm himself by our fire, kept my kids safe, and rangers found him in the morning.
Weeks later, I ran into Jeff by chance at the grocery store. We started talking, then getting coffee. He was patient, kind, and gentle with my kids—never rushing, never disappearing. Trusting him scared me more than that night in the woods, but he kept showing up.
What began as the most terrifying moment of my life quietly became something unexpected: the start of healing, and of being found when I didn’t know I needed it.