I woke up before the sun, the room still cloaked in that grey, pre-dawn quiet that never lasts long in this house. My phone buzzed with the alarm I set the night before -- 4:45 a.m., brutal but necessary. Our flight was at nine, and I knew how this circus usually went. If I didn't start moving early, my husband and daughter wouldn't.
I sat up slowly, brushing my long hair back from my face. The mirror across the room caught a glimpse of me in the dim light -- not bad for forty-six. I still had the cheekbones, the lips that remained pouty through the years, and a tall, slender figure that hadn't yet surrendered to gravity, though God knows gravity was trying. Still, it was a blessing to look this good at my age and I wasn't going to complain.
Jeremy, of course, was still dead to the world beside me, mouth slightly open, snoring faintly. I nudged his arm.
"Hubby," I whispered, then again, louder. "Hubby. It's time."
He groaned and rolled over, dragging the comforter with him.
"I'm up," he said into the pillow, though he didn't move.
I didn't have the luxury to wait. I padded into the hallway and knocked on Stacy's door.
"Stace. Up. Let's go."
No response. I cracked the door open and saw her sprawled across the bed like a starfish, her phone clutched in one hand, even in sleep. I stepped in and flicked her ankle.
"Stacy."
She stirred, grunted, and pulled the comforter over her head. I was halfway through repeating myself when my son Kevin passed by, already dressed, his duffel bag over his shoulder.
"Hey, Mom," he said, giving me a tired but warm smile.
"Bless you," I said, patting his arm. He was always the first up, always ready. At nineteen, he was the only one who seemed to understand what it meant for me to be the glue of this family. He saw things the others didn't -- the grocery runs, the birthday planning, the late-night laundry sessions when Stacy remembered she needed something washed the night before school.
"Does any beautiful lady I know need help with the bags?" Kevin grinned.
Laughing, I nodded. "You're reading my mind. Can you make sure the big suitcase gets into the car? And grab your dad's neck pillow from the couch -- he'll forget it otherwise."
"On it."
By the time I wrestled Stacy out of bed with the promise of coffee and the threat of missing the plane, Jeremy had finally shuffled into the kitchen, wearing socks and a far-off look in his eyes, as if the act of leaving the house before noon offended some deep principle.
"Do we really need to get there
this
early?" he asked, pouring himself coffee with the deliberation of someone pouring molten gold.
"Yes hubby." I said, brushing past him to grab the printout of our travel itinerary -- one of three copies I had made, just in case. "It's summer. The airport will be a zoo. You want to miss the flight, we can go back to bed. But you're not blaming me when we're stuck in security while they call final boarding."
Stacy slumped into a chair, hoodie pulled over her head, eyes glued to her screen. I wasn't even sure she remembered where we were going.
"Stacy," I said. "Do you have your passport?"
She blinked and frowned. "Um..."
"Go. Now."
Kevin returned from the garage, wiping his hands. "Suitcase is in. Car's loaded."
I kissed his cheek gratefully. "What a man! You're a miracle."
He smiled. "I try."
By six, we were packed and ready, though I use "ready" generously. Jeremy stood in the driveway staring at the car like it had wronged him. Stacy was in the back seat already, muttering into her phone, probably telling her friend she was being "dragged to hell" -- also known as a two-week vacation in Spain.
I double-checked everything. Passports, IDs, charger bricks, snacks, a paperback I probably wouldn't read, my one good pair of sunglasses. I locked the front door and got in the car. Kevin drove, because frankly, I didn't trust Jeremy to stay awake behind the wheel.
The morning sky was lightening, orange creeping along the horizon. I leaned my head against the window, finally allowing myself to exhale. This vacation had taken months to plan -- coordinating everyone's schedules, booking flights, reserving the hotel, figuring out how to not kill each other in a foreign country. I was tired already, and we hadn't even reached the terminal.
Halfway there, Jeremy perked up, turning to me.
"Did you remember the converters?"
"Yes."
"And the Airbnb reservations?"
"Not Airbnb, hubby. A hotel. Yes. I printed them."
"Should we stop for food?"
"No."
From the back, Stacy whined, "I could really use Starbucks."
I closed my eyes and said, "We'll get something at the airport. If we stop now, we'll be cutting it close."
Silence followed, which was a rare win.
At the airport, everything was exactly as I expected -- crowds, screaming toddlers, one security line open despite the eight lanes marked. I herded my family like a weary shepherd, making sure no one wandered, no one dropped a boarding pass, no one started a fight.
When Kevin slipped his arm around my shoulder as we waited for our turn at TSA, I almost teared up.
"You're doing great, Mom," he said.
I laughed. "You're the only one who notices."
He shrugged. "They'd be lost without you."
That moment carried me through the next hour of slogging through bag checks, gate changes, and listening to Stacy complain about the Wi-Fi speed. Jeremy, to his credit, did take both carry-ons when I paused to catch my breath.
Once we found our gate, I sat down with a sigh and let my head fall back against the seat. My family spread around me -- Stacy FaceTiming a friend with her earbuds in, Jeremy reading the paper like it was 1997, Kevin beside me, offering to grab me a tea.
This was the start of our adventure. Spain awaited -- paella, beaches, winding alleys in Barcelona, and probably several loud family dinners that would test my patience. But for now, I had tea in my hand, my son beside me, and a sliver of quiet before boarding.
I closed my eyes for a quick rest.
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It figured, really.
After months of meticulous planning, Excel spreadsheets, printed confirmations, and email threads color-coded by day, the airline still managed to botch our seat reservations. I had triple-checked it -- four seats together, row 21. But at the gate, the agent offered me that tight, practiced smile that meant bad news.
"Looks like there's been a last-minute equipment change," she chirped. "We had to reassign seats."
The final result? Jeremy and Stacy up in row 12, comfortably placed right behind the business class curtain, while Kevin and I were bumped to row 37 -- practically inside the lavatory.
Jeremy didn't even fight it. "It's fine, Helen. It's just a flight," he said, already maneuvering his way up the aisle. Stacy barely looked up from her phone, mumbling something about how she "needed the window" seat.
I took a deep breath and smiled at the gate agent, resisting the urge to unleash twenty years of domestic martyrdom into her face.
By the time Kevin and I reached our seats -- one window, one middle -- I was so tightly wound that even my teeth ached from clenching. The overhead bins were full, the air smelled like recycled stress, and the man in front of us was already reclined like he was trying to nap through a coma.
