Chapter 3 - Boarding Pass in Hand
The drive back to my empty house felt entirely different from the panicked ride two hours earlier. The morning fog had burned off, revealing a crisp autumn sky. When I pulled into my driveway, the tire marks from Caleb’s luxury crossover were still visible on the wet grass where he’d carelessly cut the corner of my flowerbed.
I walked inside. The house was dead quiet.
On the kitchen counter sat my boarding pass, printed the night before, folded neatly beside my passport and a guide to Portugal’s coastal trains. Beside them sat a half-drunk mug of tea, gone completely cold.
I picked up the mug, dumped it in the sink, and brewed a fresh pot.
For the first time all day, I picked up my cell phone. The screen was already glowing with notifications. There was a text from Caleb sent at 7:15 a.m.:
*“Mom, forgot to mention, Leo has a mild cough. The nebulizer is in the duffel. Don’t let him outside if it’s under sixty degrees. Thanks again, you’re a lifesaver!”*
Not a single word asking if I was okay. Not a question about my luggage, which he had literally tripped over on my porch. No acknowledgment that I had mentioned my flight at Sunday dinner three different times.
I didn't reply. Instead, I plugged my phone into the wall, took a hot twenty-minute shower, and dressed in the comfortable linen trousers and slip-on travel shoes I had laid out days ago. I zipped my suitcase, checked that all the doors were locked, and set the security system.
By eleven o’clock, I was rolling my bag down the concourse toward long-term parking.
The airport was bustling with business travelers, families heading out on vacation, and students carrying oversized backpacks. For years, I had watched other people take these flights while I stayed behind to cover sick days, school holidays, and last-minute weekend getaways for my son’s household. Every time, Caleb had said, *“We just don’t trust anyone else with the kids, Mom. You’re the only one who really loves them.”*
It was flattery wrapped around a shackle.
Standing in the TSA line, I felt my phone buzz against my thigh. It was a call from an unknown international number. Caleb and Tori were likely sitting in the international departure lounge at San Francisco or Los Angeles, waiting for their transpacific leg to Tokyo.
I silenced the ringer without looking.
When I cleared security, I walked toward Gate C18. My travel companion, Linda, was already sitting by the panoramic windows, holding two large iced coffees and a pair of oversized sun hats. Linda and I had been widowed within six months of each other four years ago, bonded by shared grief and a stubborn refusal to spend the rest of our sixties staring at television sets.
“You’re late,” Linda said, handing me a cup with a knowing grin. “Did the grandbabies stage a sit-in?”
“You have no idea,” I said, sinking into the padded seat beside her. “Tori dumped them on my porch at dawn. Red folder, luggage, the whole nine yards.”
Linda stopped mid-sip, her jaw dropping. “You’re joking. What did you do?”
“I took them straight to Patrice’s house.”
Linda stared at me for three whole seconds before bursting into a belly laugh so loud three business travelers in suits looked over in annoyance. “You didn't!”
“I did,” I smiled, taking a long drink of cold brew. “And Patrice took them in, threw the manual on the counter, and told me to get on the plane.”
“God bless that terrifying woman,” Linda cheered, clinking her plastic cup against mine.
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Over the intercom, the gate agent’s voice crackled to life: *“United Airlines flight 964 with nonstop service to Lisbon is now ready for general boarding.”*
I reached into my bag, took out my phone, and slid the toggle to Airplane Mode.
