I thought one rude stranger cutting in front of me at airport security was too minor to fight over. Then he started bragging about it loudly because he thought I didn’t understand English. By the time we reached the gate, I knew our paths weren’t finished crossing.
I flew to Spain on my own last week.
I left my husband, Mark, and our two kids at home in the States for nine days so I could visit my parents.
My dad is Spanish. My mom is American.
They moved back to Spain years ago, and I hadn’t seen them in two years.
I had forgotten how strange it feels to travel without children.
No snacks stuffed into every pocket.
No tiny jacket I’m somehow responsible for, even though it belongs to someone else.
No one asking when we’re boarding every six minutes.
For the first day, I kept checking behind me in airports and train stations because my brain was convinced I had misplaced a child.
