Then she straightens, looking past me—at my boys, standing too close together, not getting in trouble. Not arguing or pretending they’re little avengers.
And when she looks back at me, her voice is steady. Firm. Older, somehow.
“You do what you always do,” she says. “You hold it together. For them.”
I swallow hard.
By now she’s squeezed my hands so many times I’ll probably have bruises.
I’ve probably left bruises on hers too, though.
“Noah and Rocky are working on answers. You just need to be Mom right now, okay? Babs is taking care of Mom, and I… I’ve got you.”
I nod, even though my chest feels like it’s caving in.
“Okay,” I whisper. Then again, stronger. “Okay.”
I don’t know how I’m going to do this.
But I do know one thing.
So I paste on the smile I’ve gotten too good at faking.
I shift into motion.
Backpacks in the bins. Shoes off. Arms around shoulders, steering little bodies through security. I answer every question with a calm I don’t feel. "No, Dad’s not coming on this flight," "Yes, we’ll see him soon," "No, we don’t need to be scared." I crouch to tie a shoelace. I help Mom find her boarding pass. I double check every bag. Every detail.
I only glitch a little when we reach the gate—just a stutter in my breath when they call our group number. Because going home, like this? Feels wrong.
But then I’m back in it.
Buckling seatbelts. Adjusting headphones. Unwrapping granola bars. Getting the boys settled with their iPads and their favorite shows.
Beckett always handled the snacks.
Across the aisle, Luna catches my eye. She gives me the smallest nod—not a smile exactly, more like quiet approval. Reassurance.
Noah slips into his seat just before the plane pulls away from the gate, a little out of breath. He shakes his head once. No news.
The seatbelt chime sounds. The engines wind from a thin, high whine into a steady roar. The plane begins to move.
And just like that, we’re leaving.
I stare straight ahead, jaw tight, hands folded in my lap, holding myself together for the boys—because I don’t have a choice.
I’m going home without him.
We hit cruising altitude. Tray tables down. The boys are knee-deep in a cartoon chase scene when Luna leans toward me, voice soft.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” she says. “But I’m here, Ash.”
I stare into my ginger ale, bubbles rising in slow spirals.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I whisper.
Undeterred, she tells me, “Start with why Beckett hasn’t been home for a month.”
I jerk my head toward her. Blink.
