The vacation budget is still not large, but unlike last year, I can at least schedule a vacation, plan a trip, without worrying that I may be forced to cancel it, or need the money for something else – mostly likely, paying for The Lawyer’s next vacation.

So, early in the year, I ask The Child, where do you want to go?

To Cannon Beach, she says unequivocally. We haven’t gone there for a really long time.

We used to go to Cannon Beach every other year, renting a beach house for a week with The Departed and his two children. Or at least, that was the official plan: we actually only went twice.

I originally discovered Cannon Beach when I lived in Portland, where The Foreigner and I lived when The Child was born. He took paragliding lessons not far from there, on the dunes of the Oregon Coast, and I liked to go and watch and sit in the sand and cool coastal breezes.

I’ve never been to Cannon Beach without one of my husbands, yet I don’t think of either of them when I think of it: I think of majestic Haystack Rock, beach walks in still morning fog, and fresh taffy from the pink and white striped candy store.

So, I rent a small condo for the three of us: Me, The Child, and The Dog.

We load up the car with what seems to be not enough stuff, but I don’t stress, though I feel like I should. I fire up the GPS as we hit the road, nervous about the five-hour drive, and I’m immediately pleased to discover it’s actually only a four-hour trip.

It seemed much longer in years past.