Kevin, who couldn’t meet my eyes.
Jessica, impatient and dismissive, already mentally on the beach.
Linda, clutching her boarding pass like a golden ticket, uncomfortable but not enough to walk away.
Tyler and Emma, learning this is how you treat someone who loves you.
“I understand,” I said.
My voice came out smooth and clinical, the voice I used to deliver bad news in family conference rooms at Chicago Memorial.
Kevin’s head snapped up at my tone. Jessica relaxed, thinking she’d “handled” me.
“Have a wonderful trip,” I said.
Then I turned and walked away, pulling my suitcase behind me. My back was straight, my chin up, the same posture I used when walking into hospital board meetings, malpractice depositions, and ethics committee hearings.
Behind me, I heard Jessica say to Kevin, half-laughing, “See? She’s fine with it. Let’s go check in.”
But I wasn’t fine.
I was finished.
I was done.
I walked to a quiet corner of the terminal near a bank of tall windows overlooking the tarmac. Planes trundled across the concrete in the blue pre-dawn light, tails painted with the logos of airlines from all over the country.
I set my suitcase beside a row of empty seats, took a deep breath, and pulled out my phone.
First call.
I scrolled to a number labeled Elite Travel Services, the high-end agency I’d used for complicated conferences and once-in-a-lifetime trips during my working years.
The line rang twice before a calm, professional voice answered.
