She nods, not believing me for a second. "It's weird how quickly things change, isn't it? Monday, we were strangers. By Thursday, it felt like..."
"Family," I finish, the word sticking in my throat.
The gate agent calls for boarding, andwe gather our things. I watch Sanders take Luke's backpack without being asked, slinging it over his own shoulder while Luke shuffles forward.
On the plane, I make sure Sanders buckles himself into the window seat. Carly and her kids sit across the aisle. As we taxi, the Manhattan skyline glitters against the morning sky. I try to locate all the buildings that are connected to these memories, where we skated, laughed, kissed, and then ended it with an argument.
"Goodbye," I whisper as the plane lifts, pretending I'm only talking about New York.
The drone of the engines rumbles through my bones, a soothing white noise that should lull me to sleep but doesn't. Sunlight spills through the small, rounded rectangle window, painting Sanders' profile in gold as he stares at his phone. His head gradually grows heavier against my shoulder, but not from sleepiness. He holds up my phone, and I realize he's leaning in to show me something.
"Dad DM'd me," he announces, voice bright with excitement. "He saw our new TikTok! Said Luke's statue pose was perfect."
My insides cinch, the feeling as bitterly familiar as breathing. I arrange my face into something resembling a smile.
"That's great, Honey."
I'm glad he's found time to scroll TikTok.
Sanders reads through more messages, his thumb flicking upward with practiced ease. "Look, he sent a thumbs-up emoji. And here—" He points to another blue bubble. "'Proud of you, Squirt.'"
Each word from Woody is like a small paper cut. Tiny, sharp stings that shouldn't hurt as much as they do. Hisabsence somehow feels more present now, threaded through every message he sends our son.
Sanders continues scrolling. Then he clicks over to my photos, showing me pictures I took of them at Rockefeller Center. My chest aches at the identical dimples in their cheeks, at how easily Woody can slide in and out of our lives while leaving these perfect little moments behind.
"I just texted him that we left. He wants to know when we land," Sanders says, already typing a response. "What time? Can I tell him?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. "Mom, what time?"
"Oh. Sorry. We land at 3:05. We have a layover in Charlotte."
“Dad said he has to work tomorrow, but he can come Monday night. Can he? Please?”
The wordsabsolutely notburn on my tongue. I clamp my jaw, swallow them back.
“We’ll see,” I manage. “Let’s get home and get settled.”
Sanders chatters on, oblivious to the war inside me. That all too familiar mix of guilt and resolve that has simmered between us since the divorce rages on, hotter than ever.
I don't want to miss him. I don't want to wonder if he's thinking about that kiss too, or if it's already filed away, forgotten beneath surgical notes and patient charts.
But I do. And I hate myself a little for it.
Sanders yawns, his enthusiasm finally winding down as the flight fatigue catches up. I kiss the top of his head, breathing in the scent of hotel shampoo and airplane snacks.
"Get some rest," I whisper, closing my eyes and pretending I'm not the one whoneeds it most.
Home isboth familiar and strange after the bustle of Manhattan. The silence wraps around me, punctuated only by the soft rumble of the heater kicking on. I push my empty suitcase against the wall with my foot, too tired to properly stow it away.
My muscles ache as I sink onto the edge of my bed. The shower helped wash away the airport grime, but did nothing for the weight pressing against my chest.
Sanders went down quickly, the exhaustion of travel finally catching up to him after his excitement about sharing all our New York adventures with his friends tomorrow.
I run my fingers through my damp hair, working out a small tangle. No matter how many showers I take, I can still feel the phantom press of Woody's lips against mine, the memory stubbornly clinging to my skin.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen illuminating the darkened room. It's Maggie, probably. Third text tonight, checking if we made it home safely.
I also have an unanswered text from Jerry checking on us. I'm not falling into that with him again. It's his way of worming back into my routine. We've done this many times over the years.
