Level 3C of the airport garage. I sat in the truck a long minute, gripping the steering wheel.
The dented thermos was still in the cup holder, warm from the coffee Rose poured at 5 AM. She said, 'You’re giving them the world.'
My three kids pressed their faces to the glass, staring at the planes. They’d never been on one. Neither had I.
I pulled the parking ticket from the machine and tucked it in my wallet. That little slip of paper meant we were really leaving.
Connor asked if the plane had a bathroom. Lily wanted to know if we’d see clouds up close. The baby just babbled at a passing shuttle.
I’d saved two years for these tickets. Three seats, middle row, red-eye. We wore our best clothes—wrinkled from the suitcase.
Walking through the terminal, I held the baby and kept the older two in front of me. Every step felt like a first step.
Rose was right. It wasn’t just a trip. It was the first time I showed them there was something beyond our block.
We’ll never get that moment back. The four of us, standing at the gate, breathing the same recycled air, about to lift off together.