I could tell my sister was about to try the same move again the instant she said, a little too lightly, “You’re still good for Saturday, right?”
We were in Terminal C at O’Hare, surrounded by rolling suitcases, restless kids, and the stale scent of burnt airport coffee. My older sister, Melanie, had on leather leggings, a cropped sweater, and that familiar look she wore whenever she was about to turn her lack of planning into someone else’s crisis. Next to her, my ten-year-old niece and nephew—Lila and Owen, the twins—shared a bag of pretzels while quietly arguing over whose turn it was to hold the portable charger. Past security, her husband, Nate, was buying energy drinks and checking his phone every few seconds, as if every trip were a competition he needed to win.
