“Yesterday?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. “You told me the flight was today. Three p.m.”

There was a pause, a rustle of wind, or perhaps just her breath. “Did I? I thought we said the twelfth. Clara even double‑checked the tickets.”

Clara—the youngest of the grandkids, nine years old and apparently more informed than I was. I turned toward the glass and blinked at the tarmac, as if that might explain it. I sat down on a bench near a vending machine and pulled up our text thread with trembling fingers. There it was, clear as sunlight: Flights at 3:00 p.m. on the 13th. Don’t be late, Delora. We’re counting on you. Sent by Ivette herself.

Around me, the airport kept moving—families hugging, flight announcements blaring, children buzzing and dragging oversized backpacks. I had packed mine the night before, carefully rolling each shirt. I had even baked sugar cookies for the kids, the ones with cinnamon edges Nolan used to love. And they had left me. Not forgotten, not miscommunicated. Left.