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

Softer somehow, filtered through coastal haze. I stood at the curb near sign B4, where Jessica had picked me up last time—three years ago. People flowed around me.

Hugs. Laughter. Reunions.

A young man held a sign that said, “Welcome home.”

A dad with balloons tied to his wrist. An older woman, maybe my age, was embraced by three adult children at once. I checked my phone.

No messages. I called Jessica. It rang six times.

Went to voicemail. “Hi, this is Jess. Leave a message.”

I didn’t.

I just hung up. Tried again five minutes later. Same thing.

By 3:15, my feet hurt. I sat on my suitcase. By 3:30, I called Brad, my son-in-law.

No answer. I texted Jessica again. I’m here at arrivals.

B4. Where should I wait? Read receipt.

Still no reply. At 3:51, I stood up and brushed off my slacks. I told myself there was traffic.

There was always traffic in L.A. But something cold was crawling up my spine—the kind of cold that asks questions you don’t want to answer. I opened Instagram.

I rarely used it. Had only downloaded it to see photos of the grandkids. Jessica’s profile loaded.

The most recent post was from 20 minutes ago. A photo. Wine glasses—four of them held up to the camera.

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