The morning air outside Terminal C at Dallas/Fort Worth carried the sharp smell of jet fuel, wet pavement, and the kind of human rush that makes loneliness feel louder. Evelyn Parker, seventy-two years old, stood under the departure awning with one hand gripping her handbag so tightly her knuckles hurt. Her son, Michael Parker, was already walking back toward his SUV, checking something on his phone as if he had just completed a routine errand. His wife, Lauren, adjusted her oversized sunglasses and called out through the half-open window, “Have a safe flight, Evelyn!”
Then the door shut.
The SUV pulled away.
Evelyn watched the red taillights disappear into airport traffic until they blurred into everything else leaving her behind.
There was no flight.
