The connection dropped shortly after, but the way he said it stayed with me long after the conversation. It almost felt like time had stopped in the kitchen. I set the phone down on the counter, but his words hung in the air. I looked at the clock on the wall, watched the second hand tick, and tried to decipher the emotion in his voice. It wasn’t dramatic or urgent, there wasn’t an immediate crisis behind it, but it was profoundly different, like a silent signal that, as a mother, I absolutely couldn’t ignore. I sat at the kitchen table, listening to his voice again in my head, and wondered endlessly why that simple moment seemed so important. I looked outside, at the leaves gently moving in the wind. It was a kind of primal instinct awakening inside me, a visceral feeling that told me that simply listening wasn’t enough…
For the rest of the afternoon, I wandered around the house like a ghost. I’d start tasks and then abandon them halfway, my thoughts constantly returning to that long sigh on the other end of the phone. That evening, anxiety had completely overwhelmed me, and without even thinking twice, I made a decision: I booked a flight to visit him the next morning. I entered my details on the laptop screen, my hands shaking slightly. I didn’t tell him I was coming. I knew his personality; if I’d called, he’d have reassured me that everything was fine and that I didn’t have to worry about anything. I absolutely wanted to avoid making him feel like a burden. I didn’t want to give him the impression that something was wrong with me, or inadvertently transform a simple, tender moment into something burdensome or oppressive. It wasn’t about demanding answers, but about being close to him. I packed my suitcase in a few minutes, driven by an invisible need. That night I slept very little, staring at the ceiling in the dark bedroom, waiting for the alarm to finally give me permission to leave.
