Near the security checkpoint, Spencer announced it was time.
“Say goodbye to your mother, Eli.”
My son walked toward me slowly.
For one terrible moment, I thought he might offer a stiff little wave or a quick, careless hug.
Instead, he threw both arms around my waist and held on tight.
“Don’t cr*y, Mom,” he whispered.
I swallowed hard.
“I’m trying, sweetheart.”
His grip tightened.
“Just wait for me.”
I pulled back slightly.
Something slid into the pocket of my coat.
Small, flat, and hard.
“Please trust me,” he whispered, and then his father’s hand was on his shoulder, and he was walking away through security in his London blazer without looking back, because I think he knew that if he looked back he wouldn’t be able to go.
I did not take my hand out of my pocket until their plane had left the gate.
It was a black bank card.
