“Are you still angry with me?” he asked.
“A little.”
He smiled.
“How long will that last?”
“Until tomorrow morning.”
He laughed and kissed my forehead.
I leaned against his shoulder.
“Robert, next time you plan a surprise, just tell me we’re going somewhere nice.”
“I will.”
“And never tell me I’m going to lose my children again.”
His smile faded into something gentler.
“I promise.”
I looked at the warm lights glowing in our children’s houses nearby and felt a peace I hadn’t experienced in years.
That day, my husband had frightened me into believing I was about to lose my children forever. Instead, he had brought me thousands of miles closer to them—or at least, close enough that I could visit whenever I wanted.
After fifty-two years of marriage, I learned that love isn’t always expressed perfectly. Sometimes it arrives with a terrible sentence, a plane ticket, and a surprise you never expected.
