“Of course,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”
Kenzo’s grip tightened around my hand.
Quasi crouched in front of him, placing both hands on Kenzo’s shoulders, angling his face just right, like he knew how this moment should look.
“You take care of Mama for me, all right?” he said warmly.
Kenzo didn’t answer. He just nodded, eyes locked on his father’s face with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
It was the kind of look you give when you’re afraid you won’t see someone again.
Quasi kissed Kenzo’s forehead, then my cheek.
“Love you both.”
Then he turned and walked toward the TSA line without looking back, blending into the river of travelers heading toward metal detectors and gates.
I watched until I couldn’t see him anymore.
Only then did I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Okay, baby,” I said softly. “Let’s go home.”
We started walking toward the parking deck, our footsteps echoing against the polished floor. Stores were closing, metal grates half-pulled down. The flight boards flickered overhead with last-call announcements. People jogged past us clutching Chick-fil-A bags and backpacks.
Kenzo lagged behind, dragging his feet.
“You okay, sweetie?” I asked. “You’ve been really quiet.”
He didn’t answer.
We were almost at the glass doors when he stopped so suddenly I nearly stumbled.
“Mama.”
I turned, annoyed for half a second, then instantly alarmed by the sound of his voice.
“What is it?”
He looked up at me, and the fear in his eyes punched the air out of my chest.
“Mama,” he whispered, tugging my hand hard, “we can’t go back home.”
I crouched in front of him, trying to keep my voice calm. “What do you mean? Of course we’re going home. It’s late.”
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