She Said: “Mom, You’re Turning 70. We Want To Celebrate You.” I Booked The Flight. Landed At LAX. THEN I REALIZED…

Which terminal? Jessica: This is ridiculous. You’re making this worse.

I turned the phone off again. I thought about that last message. Making it worse.

As if I were the problem. As if I’d flown myself to California, promised myself a party, forgotten myself at the airport. There was a hotel across from the airport.

I could see it from the window—a tall generic tower with a shuttle bus running every 15 minutes. I watched the bus come and go twice before I stood up, threw away my half-eaten scone, and walked outside to wait for it. The hotel room cost $189 a night.

I paid for two nights because I couldn’t think about going home yet. The room was what you’d expect. Two double beds with floral bedspreads.

A TV bolted to the dresser. A view of the parking lot. But it was clean.

And it was mine. I sat on the edge of the bed and cried for the first time. Not loud.

Not dramatic. Just quiet tears that came without permission and left without fanfare. When I was done, I washed my face, changed into comfortable clothes, and ordered room service— a bowl of soup and a roll.

It arrived 30 minutes later, delivered by a young man who said, “Enjoy your evening, ma’am,” like he meant it. I ate slowly. The soup was fine.

Not great. Not terrible. Just food.

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