The moment I dropped my husband at Hartsfield–Jackson Airport, I truly believed it was just another one of his polished business trips. He gave his usual charismatic wave before disappearing into the security line — the kind of goodbye that looked perfect from the outside.
But right as I reached for my keys, my six-year-old son tugged my hand so hard it startled me.
“Mama… don’t drive back home,” he whispered, his voice thin and cracking. “This morning I heard Daddy say he’s planning something bad. Really bad. You have to believe me this time.”
