Leaving Was Hard. Returning Was Harder.

We spent three nights away.

That’s all. Just three nights. But it felt like a lifetime in both directions.

Because leaving was hard. And returning? Maybe even harder.

It’s easy to think that getting in a car with a rooftop tent or into an old camper is just an act of travel. But for us, it was a rupture. A fragile rebellion against years of stuckness, pressure, grief and overstimulation.

We hadn’t stayed anywhere else since September 2020. We didn’t even know how it would feel anymore: to wake up somewhere where there was space. And no daily specific time schedules.  And we weren’t even sure if we’d go, or for how long. Because the emotional weight was enormous.

My mother had been quietly (and not so quietly) waiting for us to leave, asking about our plans not out of concern, but out of impatience. She wanted the house. She wanted her boyfriend over. She wanted us out of her way.

And I kept telling her: I don’t want to plan. I need openness. I need freedom, not more pressure.

But pressure is what we got. And the moment we finally left, she got what she wanted. Only to not even take it. She didn’t let her boyfriend stay after all. Instead, she stayed at his place until midnight, in a space with no fresh air, full of smoke, mess and heat.
While the garden she always complains about was there and empty.

And then of course came the backpedaling:  “I miss all the things I usually don’t like about you.”
A sentence that sounds like love, but feels like guilt in disguise.
Because if you miss the things you claim to resent, what am I supposed to do with that?

But we weren’t there to hear it. Because we were waking up in nature.

We were surrounded by red deer and Highland cows. We walked wherever we felt like walking. We ate simply. We had to adapt, sure: it’s an old vehicle. But they were OUR challenges. Not hers. Not the noise and fumes and brightness of the city. Not the micro-demands and emotional games of a house that hasn’t felt like a home in years.

We were free. We were finally moving. And then we had to stop. Because something happened.

The engine started failing. It couldn’t drive at normal speed. It struggled uphill. And we found out someone had likely thrown something into our tank while it had no fuel cap; something that blocked the flow of diesel to the engine.

So we had to blow into the tank occasionally just to keep it going.
We had to avoid motorways. We had to limp back to the place we fought so hard to leave – not when we felt it was time, but because fate forced our hand.

And I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to return to the room where we sleep, cook, eat, work, and exist in one spot. I wasn’t ready for my mother’s passive expectations:

“I’m glad my cook has returned.” “I’m glad my dog-sitter is back.”
“I’m glad my garden helper is home again.”

As if I exist in her world only for what I do. Not who I am. Not what I need.

We were finally beginning to remember who we are outside that one overheated room, outside the surveillance and outside the city that never lets us rest.

And then our vehicle broke. And we had to come back. Not in our rhythm. Not on our terms.

But still…We left. We did it. And even though it was only three nights: they were ours.

Our decisions. Our dirt under our shoes. Our tea outside at sunrise.
Our life. Even if only for a moment.