It wasn’t.
When we landed, I wrestled two exhausted toddlers, three heavy bags, and a stroller that wouldn’t cooperate. I looked like I’d been through a battle. Mateo strolled out behind me, stretching and yawning like he’d just woken up from a spa day.
“That flight was awesome,” he said. “Did you get the pretzels? Oh wait…” He laughed.
I didn’t even glance at him. At baggage claim, my father-in-law was waiting, arms open, grinning wide.
“There they are—my grandbabies!” he said, lifting Willow into a big hug. “And look at you, Mom—you’re a hero.”
Then Mateo stepped up, arms out. “Hey, Dad!”
But his father didn’t move. He just looked at him. Expression hard.
Then, calm and cold, he said, “Son… we’ll talk later.”
And we definitely would.
That night, after the twins were finally asleep and I’d washed the day off my face, I heard it.
