Airport goodbyes were supposed to be effortless. A quick kiss, a soft promise to text upon landing, and then life would simply fold neatly back into its usual routine.
That was what I believed I was doing that Thursday morning at O’Hare International Airport. I stood under the cold fluorescent lights and watched my husband disappear into another three-day trip.
His navy blazer was crisp and his smile was practiced. He seemed already halfway gone before the plane ever left the tarmac.
“Houston. I will be back before you even miss me,” Dominic said as he pressed a familiar kiss to my forehead.
Then my son, Toby, grabbed my hand with a strength that made me wince. He leaned close and spoke in a voice that was barely a breath.
“Mom, we can’t go home,” he whispered.
I almost smiled because children imagine things so vividly. They hear fragments of adult conversations and fill in the rest with monsters or spies.
But his eyes were steady and cold. They were not imagining anything at all.
“This morning, Dad was on the phone talking about us, and it did not sound right,” he whispered urgently.
My chest tightened as I looked at his pale face. “Please believe me this time,” he begged.
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