A successful man, a supportive wife, and a child standing close between them.
Our son Kenzo held my hand, his small fingers slightly damp against my palm. At six years old, he was usually full of quiet curiosity, always observing the world around him. He wore his favorite Hawks hoodie, and his sneakers lit up each time he shifted his feet. His dinosaur backpack hung unevenly on his shoulder, filled with small treasures he carried everywhere.
That evening, something about him felt different.
He stood too still, his gaze moving carefully from one detail to another, as if he were searching for something. There was a tension in his posture that didn’t belong to a child.
“This meeting in Chicago is important,” Quasi said, pulling me into a brief embrace. His tone was warm, practiced, steady. “Three days, and I’ll be back.”
I nodded, offering the same calm response I always gave. “We’ll be fine.”
Kenzo’s grip tightened.
Quasi crouched down in front of him, placing his hands gently on his shoulders. “Take care of Mama for me,” he said.
Kenzo nodded, though he didn’t speak. His eyes stayed fixed on his father’s face, and something about that look unsettled me more than I could explain.
Quasi kissed his forehead, then my cheek, and turned toward the security line. Within moments, he disappeared into the steady flow of travelers moving toward their gates.
I watched until I could no longer see him. Only then did I realize I had been holding my breath.
“Let’s go home,” I said softly.
