I got to arrivals at 11:12 a.m. with a cold coffee and a bunch of daisies I bought at the airport kiosk because I’m the kind of person who thinks flowers can patch holes in reality.
My daughter Lily loves flowers.
She’ll press them between book pages like she’s saving evidence for court.
Lily doesn’t have a phone.
Lily is eight.Lily still forgets to zip her backpack all the way and then acts surprised when pencils fall out like confetti, which is why I was standing there scanning faces like a security camera, waiting for a small body to come barreling toward me, waiting for the hug that knocks the wind out of my lungs.
Three days in Dubai.
A treat.
Mom had called it luxury.
She said it like it meant she’d leveled up as a grandparent.
It was Mom and Dad.
My sister Ashley and her husband Matt.
Their children, Paige and Ethan.
And Lily.
Cousins trip.
Grandparents trip.
Family photos.
Beaches.
Hotel lobbies.
“Lauren, stay home. You need rest. You work too much.”
I’d believed them, not because they’d earned it, but because Lily was excited, and I wanted to be the mom who says yes to something big.
