That year, Father’s Day and our anniversary fell on the same day, and was spent stuffing and zipping suitcases before scurrying off to the airport. We hugged goodbye as I gathered my three chicks around me like a mother hen and shuffled them through security to the boarding gate.
One overnight leg from the southwestern tip of Africa to the bustling hub of London and a long, hungry layover in Heathrow. Another skip across the ocean after a three-hour delay, a missed flight, an unexpected night in a Cleveland hotel. Forty-something hours and four flights altogether, we finally arrived.
And she was waiting. It had been almost eight months since I’d seen her, and her health had deteriorated beyond my sleepless night wonderings.
But we were there, and she exhaled.
And for the first time, I understood what it felt like to be waited for.