We were stuck in gridlock when I dozed off and woke at dawn outside a tiny gas station. My husband had taken the next exit—“not lost, just rerouted”—and we drifted along quiet back roads, stopping at a diner called Milly’s where the air and pancakes untied a hard week.
That turn led us to old friends for “just coffee” that became hours of bread, garden tours, and laughter. On the way home we made a pact: more slow detours, fewer maps.
Soon our Saturdays filled with serendipity—lakeside grilled cheese, a cash-only bookshop, a couple celebrating 50 years with porch stories and love letters. One coastal afternoon, we stayed with a little girl who’d lost her mom until she was found.
Months later, the mother thanked us; she said our small travel blog helped her start a nonprofit for grieving families. Somewhere between stalled traffic and back-road sunrises, the detour became the path.