I got to the airport early even though I knew the flight was delayed.
I had been tracking it since he left Arizona. Texts from him at the gate. Updates from his mom. A text when he boarded that landed differently than the others. He was on the plane, he was coming home. I had my gate pass in hand before I left the house.
The desk where you get gate passes is its own experience. It’s not always a warm one. Once, someone looked at me and said “well, he’s fifteen, can’t he just meet you outside security?” They didn’t want to do the paperwork. I said he was special needs and watched the reply shift. Now every time I go, especially as he gets older, I feel a low-grade anxiety about how it will go. This time the agent was easy. We joked about the Sixers getting LeBron. Gate pass in hand, no line at security, and I was through.
I didn’t have luggage. Just an iPad to write and draw while I waited. No carryon, no bag, just a single dad walking through a terminal to pick up his kid. Nobody noticed. I noticed.
His gate changed to the international terminal, so I sat for a while among a group heading to Dublin. When they departed I moved closer to the jetway door. I wanted a front row seat.
The texts counted down. An hour and ten minutes. Then forty-five. Then thirty. He skipped the landing text but I watched the lights come on outside the gate and then a plane making its way in. The agonizing part is always waiting for everyone else to exit first. You watch the stream of passengers and you wait.
And then there he was.
He was tall. Taller than I remembered, or maybe just taller than I’d been picturing. Headphones on, backpack, a blanket, and a Game Time pillow he’d picked up on the trip. He looked like a seasoned traveler, which he is. I hugged him. I handed over my ID, signed the paperwork, and then hugged him again before we headed toward baggage claim.
I had been preparing for his return for weeks.
I deep cleaned his room before he got home. Not because it needed it, but because I wanted him to come back to something welcoming. A made bed, a clean space, a room that said you were expected and wanted here. I got through the chores I’d been putting off so neither of us would have to think about them when he got back. I knew the first week would be full. Appointments that had been stretched out over the six weeks, allergy and orthodontist visits rescheduled to account for his absence. I wanted the rest of it clear. I didn’t want either of us to have to worry about anything except being home.
We fell right back into it. The routines, the inside jokes, the Wawa runs.
It feels complete again. Not easy. Not perfect. The work is real.
But complete.
