The terminal at O’Hare International Airport was a cacophony of hurried goodbyes and eager hellos, a symphony of transit that usually signaled adventure. For me, it was the stage for a meticulously rehearsed tragedy.
I stood near the security checkpoint, clutching my husband’s hand as if it were a lifeline I was terrified to let go of. Tears streamed down my face, hot and unchecked, blurring the sterile fluorescent lights into starry halos.
“Mark,” I choked out, my voice trembling with a sorrow that was only half-feigned. “Do you really have to be gone for two whole years?”
