He smiled that smile again—the one that should have felt warm but somehow didn’t quite reach the temperature it promised. “You okay? You seem distracted.”
“Fine,” I lied, because what else do you say when you can’t quite name the feeling crawling up your spine? “Just tired. You know how Thursdays are.”
He nodded like he understood, adjusted his watch—that expensive one his father had given him for our fifth anniversary, the one he wore like armor—and stepped into the TSA line, already pulling out his phone, already somewhere else entirely.
And that should have been it. That should have been the moment where I turned around, gathered our son, and headed to the parking garage to begin the familiar drive home through Atlanta traffic that never quite moves the way you hope it will.
But right then, right as my husband’s silhouette merged with the crowd of travelers shedding shoes and belts and dignity at the security checkpoint, my six-year-old son tugged my hand. Not the casual tug of a child who wants attention or needs the bathroom or spotted something interesting in a gift shop window. This was hard, urgent, the kind of grip that comes from genuine fear.
I looked down at him—at Lucas, with his Spider-Man backpack and his untied shoelaces and his father’s dark eyes that always seemed to see more than a six-year-old should—and he leaned in close, so close I could smell the strawberry toothpaste from this morning’s rushed bathroom routine.
“Mom…” His voice came out barely above a whisper, like he was sharing a secret the whole terminal wasn’t allowed to hear. “We can’t go back home.”
