My Son’s Warning at the Airport Changed Everything

The terminal smelled like coffee, disinfectant, and impatience.

That was the first thing I noticed as we stood near the security checkpoint at Hartsfield–Jackson, watching people rush past us with rolling suitcases and half-finished drinks. The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, flattening everything into harsh clarity. A TV mounted near the ceiling murmured about traffic on I-85 and a storm system moving east, the volume just low enough to fade into background noise.

It should have been ordinary.

Just another Thursday night. Just another business trip.

I was exhausted in the quiet, dangerous way you don’t notice until it’s already taken root in your bones. The kind of tired that doesn’t continue reading …