The trip I’d planned for six months. The trip I’d paid forty-seven thousand dollars for. The trip I’d built in my head as the big Hayes family memory, the one my grandchildren would talk about when I was gone.
“Just one trip,” I repeated.
Jessica crossed her arms over her designer athleisure jacket.
“We already changed the reservation with the airline,” she said. “Linda’s seat is confirmed. Your ticket is canceled. Look, it’s not a big deal, Margaret. Stop being dramatic. You’re too old for Hawaii anyway. All that sun and activity, you’d just slow us down.”
Too old.
I am sixty-seven years old. I have cracked open chests at three in the morning and put beating hearts back together while residents half my age nearly fainted. I run four miles three times a week on the lakefront trail, dodging cyclists and college kids. I can walk the stairs to the top of the museum campus without stopping.
But to my daughter-in-law, I was “too old” to sit by a pool and watch my grandchildren play.
I looked at Tyler and Emma, hoping—praying—for some flicker of confusion, some crease of a frown that said this felt wrong to them too.
They stared at the floor.
Their little carry-ons stood at attention beside them like loyal soldiers. Tyler chewed his lip. Emma twisted the sleeve of her sundress. Someone had clearly told them not to say anything.
My grandchildren, who I’d pictured splashing next to me in the Pacific, wouldn’t look at me.
Around us, the hum of O’Hare shifted. A couple at the next check-in kiosk slowed their typing. A TSA agent looked our way, then quickly away. A teenager in a Chicago Bulls hoodie unabashedly watched the show.
“It’s not a big deal,” Jessica repeated, flicking invisible lint from her clothing. “We’ll send you pictures from the trip.”
She actually said that.
We’ll send you pictures from the trip you paid for, the trip you’re being cut out of like a tumor.
I stood very still and felt my heart rate climb. Not into the danger zone; I know those numbers. Just high enough to remind me I was angry.
