At sixty-three, I believed I had already faced every kind of fear life could offer.

She barely looked at me when she got out of the car.

“Don’t forget to water my orchids,” she said, as if assigning a task, not saying goodbye.

I leaned in for a kiss. She turned her cheek.

I told myself it meant nothing.

I watched her walk into the terminal, suitcase rolling behind her, posture perfect, never once turning back.

Then I heard a small voice.