The Summer that Wasn’t

Every summer, we’d talk about doing something real—not just a barbecue in the backyard or someone’s birthday in the park. I mean a trip. Something worth remembering. And this time, it was finally happening.

We picked the dates, picked the place, and picked Florida.

Sun. Sand. A break from the routine.

My mom was excited. My little sister bought a new bathing suit.

And I? I budgeted like my life depended on it—because, honestly, it kinda did.

Then my nephew called.

He lived in Florida and said he had “a hook-up” for cheap travel tickets through a friend of his who “worked with the airlines.” He swore he could get all our flights taken care of at a discount. I didn’t fully buy it—but my family did. They were too busy packing sunscreen and counting down the days.

So, against my better judgment, we let him handle it.

That was mistake number one.

The week before our trip, we still had no confirmation.

“Relax,” my nephew texted. “It’s all handled. Last-minute system, but super cheap.”

He said it like that was a selling point.

The night before we were supposed to fly, he still hadn’t sent us anything.

My mom started pacing around the apartment like she was trying to trace the flight path with her nerves. My sister kept refreshing her email like magic would happen. And me? I was one click away from panic-booking everything myself.

But I didn’t. Because we’d promised we’d trust him.

That was mistake number two.

At the airport the next morning, we stood at the check-in kiosk with nothing but bags and hope.

My nephew called.

“Yeah, the guy flaked,” he said. “Something came up. But I can still get you on today’s flight if you just pay up front—full price.”

You ever felt rage and heartbreak at the same time?

I paid. I didn’t even have time to yell. Just swiped my card for last-minute tickets at three times the price we planned for.

Day one of vacation: wrecked. Budget: obliterated.

We landed in Florida with a suitcase full of swimsuits and a wallet full of nothing.

The thing is, we thought it would get better.

We thought maybe this was just one hiccup. One speed bump before the fun started.

But nope. The nephew still hadn’t learned.

We were told we’d get help booking the rest of the week “one day at a time.”

Every night, I stayed up late searching for affordable flights to the next city, or scrambling to find hotel rooms that didn’t look like crime scenes.

Every day was a new surprise—and not the fun kind.

We didn’t do Disney. We didn’t see the Everglades. We didn’t even make it to the beach more than once.

Because every dollar was going to survival, not joy.

At one point, I asked my nephew, “Why didn’t you just tell us you couldn’t do it?”

He shrugged. “I really thought it would work.”

…Cool.

We barely lasted five days.

By then, we’d stayed in three motels, split one hotel room with two twin beds, and had eaten gas station snacks for dinner more than once.

My sister cried the night we were supposed to go on an airboat ride. We couldn’t afford it anymore.

“Next year,” my mom whispered. But even she didn’t sound convinced.

The ride back was heavy. Not just from the bags, but from what didn’t happen.

No memories worth printing. No fridge magnets or silly postcards. Just a sunburn, an overdrafted account, and a tight, unspoken resentment hanging in the car with us. That was the summer that was supposed to save us.

The one where we were finally going to feel like a normal family who got to do something fun. But it never really happened. It just unraveled—slowly, awkwardly, expensively. And when we got back home, it wasn’t relief we felt. It was silence. No one said anything about the next trip. Because this one was enough. More than enough.