I showered, put on comfortable travel clothes—black leggings, a soft Northwestern sweatshirt, the running shoes I use for my four-mile jogs along the lakefront—and double-checked my suitcase one more time. Passport. Wallet. Printed confirmations even though everything is in an app now. My cardiology brain doesn’t trust a single point of failure.
At 5:00 a.m., a black sedan from a local car service pulled up in front of my brownstone. The driver loaded my suitcase into the trunk while I locked the front door of my house that I’d bought years ago when the hospital bonuses were coming in strong and the Chicago housing market was still forgiving.
We drove down Lake Shore Drive toward O’Hare International Airport, the lights of the Chicago skyline shimmering over Lake Michigan, the Willis Tower and John Hancock Building just silhouettes against a still-dark sky. Even after all these years, that drive still makes me feel lucky to have lived my whole life in this city.
We were all meeting at O’Hare at 6:00 a.m. for our 8:15 flight to Honolulu, then on to Maui. Hawaiian Airlines. I’d upgraded all five tickets to business class—lie-flat seats, real silverware, little orchids on the trays. I wanted this to be special.
I arrived at the airport at 5:45, rolling my suitcase through Terminal 3, past the Starbucks with the line already snaking out, past families in Disney sweatshirts headed to Orlando, past bleary-eyed business travelers clutching briefcases and cold brew.
I scanned the crowds near the Hawaiian Airlines check-in counter and spotted them.
Kevin, my thirty-eight-year-old son, tall with his father’s broad shoulders, dark hair starting to show a few gray strands at the temples. The boy I raised alone after my husband, Thomas, died of a heart attack when Kevin was just ten years old.
Jessica, his wife of ten years, thirty-five, blonde, always immaculately dressed even at dawn. Before the kids were born, she worked in marketing for a tech startup downtown. Now she stayed home full-time, managing PTA committees and Instagram stories.
Tyler and Emma were bouncing despite the early hour, each wearing the new outfits I’d bought them specifically for this trip: Tyler in a T-shirt with cartoon sea turtles, Emma in a pink sundress with little white hibiscus flowers printed all over it. They had little matching kids’ carry-ons, also bought by me, with airplane stickers already on the sides.
And someone else.
An older woman stood beside them, an overnight suitcase at her feet. I recognized her instantly from birthday parties and school events.
Linda. Sixty-three. Jessica’s mother.
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