An ordinary afternoon that wasn't.
As parents, we say goodbye to our children hundreds of times.
We hug them at the front door before school.
We wave as they leave for university.
We drop them off at airports, promising we'll see them soon.
Most of those goodbyes disappear into the rhythm of ordinary life.
This one didn't.
My middle daughter moved to France shortly after graduating from high school.
The timing wasn't ideal. We had planned to buy her plane ticket on the day of the terrorist attacks in Paris in 2015. Like everyone else, we wondered whether she should still go.
Three weeks later, she boarded the plane anyway.
As her mother, I was proud, terrified, and excited for her all at once.
She built a life there.
Over the years she came home several times to visit, usually staying for six weeks in the summer and over Christmas. She would divide her time between family and friends before returning to the life she had created for herself.
By the winter of 2023, she had fallen in love.
I was happy for her.
I also found myself hoping she would slow down just a little. Not because I didn't want her to be happy, but because mothers sometimes worry that love can make us race ahead before we've had time to catch our breath.
As the visit drew to a close, she was eager to get back to France.
Home.
That word didn't bother me.
It made me proud.
She had built a life that felt like home.
On the afternoon of her flight, I took time off work so I could drive her to the airport.
It was just the two of us.
There was nothing remarkable about the drive.
We talked.
We drove.
It was an ordinary afternoon.
We parked, walked inside, and stood together in the check-in line.
She had two enormous suitcases and a backpack, packed with everything she was taking back with her.
When it was time to say goodbye, we hugged and kissed the way we always did.
She headed toward security.
She wanted to get through early so she could find a coffee and settle in before her flight.
I stood there watching her walk away.
Then, in my own mind, as clearly as if I had spoken the words aloud, I had two thoughts almost at the same time.
Go call her back.
You're never going to see her again.
I don't know where those thoughts came from.
I don't know why they were so strong.
I only know that they stopped me for a moment.
I almost called her name.
I almost asked for one more hug.
But I didn't.
I watched her disappear beyond security, believing, as every parent believes, that there would be another airport.
Another visit.
Another goodbye.
I had no idea that ordinary afternoon would become one of the clearest memories of my life.
A thought to take with you
Have you ever looked back on an ordinary moment and realized later just how much it meant?
Is there a goodbye, a hug, or a small moment with someone you love that you still carry with you?
Something come to mind?
If you'd like to share it, I'd love to hear what this story made you think about.