This was supposed to be our first real family vacation—me, Eric, and our 18-month-old twins, Ava and Mason. We were flying to Florida to visit his parents in their pastel retirement community near Tampa. His dad had been counting down the days, FaceTiming so often that Mason now calls every white-haired man “Papa.”

We were already maxed out: diaper bags, strollers, car seats, the whole circus. Then Eric leaned over and said, “I’m just gonna check something real quick,” and slipped off toward the counter.