The airport that morning smelled of coffee and jet fuel, and the soft hum of rolling suitcases blended with announcements I barely registered. Julie walked beside me with red-rimmed eyes, one hand gripping mine, the other clutching the strap of a carry-on that held 30 years of her life.
Her parents waited near the check-in counter, exactly where they had said they would be. Margaret wore her best coat, the navy one she saved for special occasions. David stood half a step behind her, hands buried in his pockets.
“There’s my girl,” Margaret said, opening her arms.
Julie folded into them, and I noticed Margaret’s fingers trembling against her daughter’s back. Not the gentle tremor of emotion. Something sharper.
“Mom, please don’t cry yet,” Julie whispered. “If you cry, I’ll never get on that plane.”
“I’m not crying,” Margaret said, even as her voice cracked. “I’m proud. That’s all.”
David stepped forward and squeezed my shoulder.