Dad was already dressed when I came downstairs at five in the morning. His suitcase stood beside the door, and his passport, boarding pass, and wallet were carefully arranged on the kitchen table. Our flight wasn’t until eleven, but at eighty-one, he liked being prepared. Since Mom passed away, airports had become difficult for him. He still drove, completed crossword puzzles, and beat us at cribbage, but crowded places made him unusually nervous.

I noticed him repeatedly turning a tiny silver keychain shaped like airplane wings. He had carried it for decades, yet whenever I asked about it, he simply called it something from an old job. That morning, however, something felt different. As we approached airport security, an impatient businessman suddenly shoved past Dad, making him stumble. I was furious, but Dad quietly told me to let it go. Then something unexpected happened.