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I’d always imagined him by my side on every trip to this stunning continent.

Not anymore.

As night settled over the camp, my thoughts drifted thousands of miles away to Spain.

To where Raff and Deacon were on holiday, probably sitting on a terrace right about now, eyes on the ocean as the sun slid under the horizon.

I wondered whether Raff was laughing at one of his dad’s terrible jokes, or if Deacon was staring out at the sea with that quiet, intense look he always got when he was lost in deep thought.

A pang of nostalgia hit me, a real, aching loss: we no longer vacationed as a family, and exploring together was no longer an option.

We used to be a team, three souls navigating the world as a tight unit.

Now, I was in the Omo Valley while they lay back on the Spanish coast, living parallel lives separated by an ocean of unspoken grief.

The pain of it was so searing I let out a silent sigh, then took a pull from my beer, trying my best to forget why I walked away from the love of my life.

The next morning, daybreak’s mist blended with woodsmoke from the camp’s central fire.

Baz, Salim, Yael, and I sat close to it in camp chairs, blankets wrapped around us to ward off the dawn chill.

I took a sip of my coffee; the spiced beverage, laced with the flavors of cinnamon and cardamom, was helping to kick me awake after a restless night spent tossing and turning on my cot.

Deacon appeared in my dreams again, this time at sunset on Okanagan Lake, his arms around me, telling me how much he loved me.

It was a memory from our secret wedding.

Years ago, overwhelmed by the cost and effort of a proper ceremony, Deacon and I eloped to British Columbia.

I planned the whole thing in six weeks.

We wanted somewhere untamed yet warm, a slice of Canadian wine country with rolling vineyards, endless lake views, and a golden hour that hit just right.

We rented a secluded lakeside cabin, and we didn’t tell a single soul we were leaving Nashville.

I woke up early on our wedding morning, stepping down to the edge of the water while the fog was still lifting off the surface.

I remember how happy, light, and free I felt, about to marry the love of my life.

Rain poured for most of the afternoon, right up until we drove high into the mountains to a vineyard for our ceremony.

Then, like magic, the sky broke open, and the sun flooded the valley.

I set up my trusted Canon on a tripod, dialed in the exposure, adjusted the timer myself, and took photos.

It was just the two of us up on that ridge, alone with our officiant, the priest from a chapel in town.

After we exchanged the vows we wrote ourselves, we spent hours exploring the terrain, me in my white gown, Deacon in his suit, and my camera hanging around my neck.

By the time the light started to fade, the hem of my dress was caked in dirt and stained with crimson wine streaks, marks that never washed out.

As dusk settled, we unfolded a blanket on the grass overlooking the lake, unpacked a spread of local cheeses, and uncorked a rich red from the valley below.

Deacon pulled his acoustic guitar from its case and leaned back against the trunk of a pine.

He played the full, finished version of Stars in Her Eyes for the very first time, his voice echoing over the quiet water as my camera captured every frame.

The whole day felt like a dream.