Airports have a way of making life feel temporary.
Shoes off. Belts in bins. Coffee gulped too fast. Goodbyes rushed, hellos delayed. Everything feels suspended between what was and what’s about to be. I’d been through this airport a hundred times before and never thought much of it. It was just another departure hall, another business trip, another week away from home.
But that’s the thing about warnings. They rarely arrive with sirens.
The Morning We Almost Missed
We were late. Of course we were late.
If parenting had taught me anything, it was that time moved differently when kids were involved. My flight was at 9:40 a.m. Boarding at 9:05. At 8:10, we were still hunting for my passport, which had somehow migrated from the desk drawer to the kitchen counter, then beneath a stack of school permission slips.
“Dad, you’re going to miss it,” my son Ethan said, leaning against the doorway with the dramatic flair only a ten-year-old could manage.
“I’m not,” I said, already irritated. “I’ve got plenty of time.”
That was a lie. We both knew it.
Ethan grabbed his backpack. “Mom said I could come with you to the airport.”
So Ethan came.
We drove mostly in silence, the kind that isn’t awkward but isn’t warm either. I was mentally rehearsing my presentation, replaying slides, calculating worst-case scenarios if I missed the flight. Ethan stared out the window, tracing invisible shapes on the glass with his finger.
At a red light, he asked, “Do you have to go again?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s my job.”
“You were gone last week.”
“I know.”
“And the week before.”
He nodded, but didn’t look convinced.
The Terminal Moment
We made it through check-in faster than expected. I relaxed a little. Maybe this would all be fine. Maybe I could grab a coffee. Maybe I could even sit for five minutes without thinking about quarterly targets or delayed emails.
Security was crowded. Families in vacation clothes. Business travelers glued to their phones. A woman arguing with a TSA agent about a bottle of shampoo.
Ethan stood close to me, unusually quiet.
When we finally cleared security, I checked the time. 8:57.
Plenty of time.
I turned to Ethan. “Alright, champ. This is where we say goodbye.”
He nodded again, but didn’t move.
I crouched down to his level. “I’ll be back Friday night. We’ll order pizza.”
“Okay.”
I kissed the top of his head, grabbed my carry-on, and stood up.
That’s when he said it.
“Dad?”
I turned back, already halfway into my professional mask. “Yeah?”
He hesitated, like he was choosing between words. Then he said, very calmly:
“Just… don’t forget us while you’re gone.”
It wasn’t dramatic. No tears. No raised voice.
Just a warning.
And for reasons I still struggle to explain, it hit me harder than anything ever had.
The Sentence That Followed Me
I walked toward my gate, but my body felt heavier, like gravity had increased without notice.
Don’t forget us.
I replayed it in my head. Over and over. Each time it landed differently.
I told myself I was overreacting. Kids say things. He didn’t mean anything by it. He was just expressing missing me. That was normal.
So why did it feel like an accusation?
At the gate, I opened my laptop. Emails flooded in. Slack messages. Calendar reminders. My world resumed its familiar pace, and for a moment, the feeling faded.
Then I saw my phone wallpaper.
A photo from two summers ago. Ethan on my shoulders at the beach, laughing so hard his eyes were closed. I remembered that day vividly—not because of the fun, but because I’d been annoyed the entire time. I’d been worried about a client call I’d missed. I’d checked my email from the bathroom.
I’d been there.
But I hadn’t really been there.
My stomach tightened.
The Flight That Felt Too Quiet
On the plane, I had the aisle seat. A stranger took the window. The middle stayed empty.
Normally, I loved that. Extra space. No distractions.
This time, the quiet felt accusatory.
As the plane taxied, I thought about how many “temporary” decisions had quietly become permanent. Just this busy season. Just this project. Just this promotion.
Just one more trip.
When had I stopped asking if the trade-off was worth it?
The flight attendant announced we could use electronic devices. I opened my laptop, then closed it again. Instead, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through photos.
Birthday parties I’d missed because of conferences.
School plays I’d watched through shaky recordings.
Vacations where I’d been present but unreachable.
I’d told myself I was doing it for them. For stability. For opportunity.
But had I ever asked them what they needed?
Ethan’s voice echoed again: Don’t forget us.
And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I hadn’t already started to.
The Meeting I Couldn’t Focus On
The meeting went well. Better than expected, actually. The client was impressed. My boss sent me a thumbs-up emoji and a “Great work.”
Normally, that would’ve been enough to carry me for days.
This time, it felt… empty.
That night in the hotel room, I called home. My wife answered, tired but cheerful.
“He did okay?” I asked.
“He did,” she said. “A little quiet after the airport, but fine.”
There was a pause.
“He asked if you were safe,” she added.
Of course he did.
After we hung up, I stared at the ceiling and realized something uncomfortable: my son was learning what adulthood looked like by watching me.
And what was I teaching him?
That love fit around work.
That presence was optional.
That being busy was more important than being available.
I didn’t like that lesson.
The Memory That Broke Me
On the second night, I dreamed about an airport.
But this time, Ethan was older. A teenager. Maybe even an adult. He stood beyond the security line, hands in his pockets, watching me leave.
I tried to say something, but no sound came out.
He turned away before I could reach him.
I woke up with my heart racing.
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