It was supposed to be a simple drive—just a few hours to visit my sister in the next town. My husband, our two kids, and I packed snacks, bundled up, and hit the road in our old sedan. The weather forecast had warned of cold, but nothing extreme. We thought we’d be fine.
Halfway there, in the middle of nowhere, the car sputtered and died. No signal. No houses. Just snow beginning to fall harder than expected. My husband tried restarting the engine. Nothing. We were stranded.
The kids were scared. I wrapped them in blankets and tried to stay calm. My husband stepped out to check under the hood, but the wind was brutal. Within minutes, the temperature inside the car dropped. We had no heat, no way to call for help, and no idea when someone might pass by.
We spent the next ten hours huddled together. I held my children close, whispering stories to keep them awake and distracted. My husband kept watch, stepping out every hour to scan the road for headlights. We rationed snacks, rubbed our hands together for warmth, and prayed.
At one point, my youngest started to drift off, her lips pale. I panicked. We sang songs, clapped hands, anything to keep her alert. My husband wrapped his coat around her and held her like a shield.
Just before dawn, a truck appeared in the distance. I’ve never cried so hard. The driver took us in, gave us hot drinks, and called for help. We were taken to a hospital, treated for mild hypothermia, and released later that day.
That night changed everything. We learned how fragile comfort is—and how strong love can be when tested. We don’t take warmth for granted anymore. We don’t take each other for granted either.
