They would pass quickly. That was what I told myself while packing on Monday morning.
But four days was enough time to miss my son’s bedtime stories.
Enough to miss the way he always requested another glass of water after I had tucked him in.
Enough to feel guilty every time he asked, “When are you coming home, Mom?”
My seven-year-old son, Bennett, had never handled my work trips well. He understood that my job occasionally required travel, but understanding did not make my absence easier.
On the first night, he called from his bed.
“Your aunt Lauren checked it twice,” I assured him.
“Did she check the windows?”
“Yes.”
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