You Sure?
Part One: The Curb
“Walk home.”
That was the message my daughter-in-law sent after she canceled my plane reservation while I stood on the curb outside Terminal 4 at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport. It was a quarter past nine on a Thursday morning in late September, already ninety-four degrees, and the heat was coming up off the concrete in waves. I was holding the handle of my rolling suitcase in one hand and my phone in the other.
I read the two words twice. Then I looked up and watched the black Cadillac Escalade pulling away from the curb, merging into the line of taxis and shuttle buses, its taillights flashing once as it braked for a traffic cop.
My son was behind the wheel. He hadn’t even tried to stop his wife.
I’d like to tell you that I got angry. That I shouted at the departing car or threw my phone or burst into tears on the sidewalk in front of a hundred strangers. I didn’t. I’ve been sixty-seven years old for four months, and I’ve learned that anger is expensive and rarely worth what it costs.
Instead, I stood there in the heat and thought for about thirty seconds. Then I typed a brief reply.
You sure?
I pressed send. I put the phone in my purse. I collected my suitcase and walked to the taxi stand at the end of the terminal, where a young man in a reflective vest waved me toward a white minivan with a Sun Cab logo on the door.
Five minutes later, as the taxi was pulling onto the freeway, my phone started ringing. Daniel. I let it ring four times before I answered.
“Mom!” my son shouted. “Where are you?”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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