I barely made it to the airport.
Missed my flight.
By three minutes.
Somehow, they let me board another one, and I was praising every holy being I could think of—until the agent asked for my passport.
No problem. I'd been ready for this. I had packed it, checked it, double-checked it. I patted my pants pockets.
Nothing.
Okay. Maybe my tote.
I dipped a hand into it calmly at first, channeling peace, like one of those women in fancy commercials who always find things on the first try.
But the agent was staring at me. A little too long. A little too close.
And something about that stare short-circuited my brain.
I started to rummage. Then dig. Then upend.
Next thing I knew, my socks, chargers, an empty perfume container, a pack of gum, and several unidentifiable objects tumbled out like I'd summoned a yard sale.
Still no passport.
"Give me a second," I muttered, dropping to my knees.
I dragged my poor, wounded suitcase over, unzipped it in one loud, decisive motion, and threw it open like a woman possessed.
And I ransacked it.
Clothes flew through the air—reds, whites, purples, some questionable prints I was too tired to be ashamed of. A pair of pajamas landed on the floor next to someone's shoes.
Every zip, every pocket, every tiny compartment—checked.
Still. No. Passport.
By this point, I didn't even care that people were staring. One guy leaned in for a better look. Someone behind him took a picture.
I sat back on my heels, breathing hard, chest heaving.
Then I felt it.
Pressed right against my skin.
I paused.
Then reached up and touched my chest. More specifically, my sports bra.
Inside. My. Top.
I fished my hand in slowly—eyes darting around, just in case someone was still recording—and pulled out the stupid little booklet like it had grown there.
How did it even get in there?
I stared at it like it owed me rent money. My face was flushed, my heart pounding, my suitcase still throwing up on the floor.
The agent raised an eyebrow.
I stood up, brushed imaginary dust off my shorts, cleared my throat, and handed it over.
"Found it," I said, as if this wasn't the most unladylike five minutes of my life.
He didn't ask. I didn't explain.
We moved on.
Because dignity?
Gone.
But at least I wasn't missing my second flight.
I made it onto the plane. Business class.
I think the gate agent just felt sorry for me. Or maybe he had a crush on me.
Bold of me to assume that.
Whatever it was, I wasn't going to question it.
I found my seat, collapsed into it like a felled tree, clicked the seatbelt, and passed out before the flight even took off.
No dreams. No interruptions. Just blessed, blackout sleep with my mouth slightly open and my soul somewhere between heaven and exhaustion.
When the landing jolt hit, my eyes popped open like I'd just been rebooted. My neck ached from sleeping sideways, and there might've been a line of drool at the corner of my mouth.
Refreshed? Not quite. But… better.
The plane taxied, people stood, phones lit up like fireflies, and I just sat there for a second—blinking and stretching.
I adjusted my top, grabbed my scraped suitcase from the overhead bin, and made my way off the plane.
The airport was small—quaint, even. Nothing like Los Angeles with its endless chaos and overpriced smoothies.
Here, everything moved slower. The air smelled different, too. Cleaner. Like possibility.
Nebraska.
I hadn't been here in three years. Not since Dad's 60th birthday, which felt like a hundred years ago and also yesterday.
I remembered the barbecue, the little live band in the backyard, and the look on his face when Lena and I surprised him with that framed photo of Mom from the old house in Seattle.
My chest did that weird twisty thing just thinking about it.
This time, though? He had no idea I was coming.
Dad was going to lose his mind. He'd pretend to scold me for not calling ahead, maybe say something dramatic like, "You could've given your old man a heart attack!" but I knew he'd be grinning the whole time.
I giggled just thinking about it.
God, I missed him.
I lugged my suitcase past the modest arrivals section and caught sight of a line of taxis parked just outside. I picked the one with the least suspicious vibe—an old, beige sedan with a dent in the bumper and a bobblehead pig on the dashboard.
The driver was a gruff older man with kind eyes and a trucker hat. He didn't talk much, which I appreciated. I gave him the address, and off we went.
The city shrank behind us. Concrete faded into pastures. Skyscrapers traded places with silos and weathered barns. Every now and then, we'd pass a herd of cows so still they looked like props.
The roads cramped, winding through open fields and tree tunnels, the branches above stitching shade across the sunlight.
I rolled the window down, letting the breeze touch my face. The air smelled like dirt and leaves and maybe a bit of cow poop—but in a nice way. If that makes sense.
Birds chirped in bursts. Every few seconds, I spotted a rabbit dashing into the underbrush or a wildflower stubbornly blooming where nothing else dared to.
When we finally turned onto Dad's road—a long, narrow stretch that wound through the trees—I felt my breath catch.
It was quiet. The kind of quiet that holds things, that knows secrets and keeps them.
The gravel crunched under the tires as the car slowly approached the farmhouse.
On either side, rows of plants stood tall and proud, their leaves a healthy, defiant green. Corn. Tomatoes. Sunflowers—some taller than the others. Everything looked alive and thriving.
I craned my neck, trying to catch the first glimpse of the house—still white, still square, with that same sagging porch roof and rusting wind chime that never quite worked but never quite stopped either.
My heart pounded.
Any second now, he'd hear the crunch of tires. He'd come out onto that porch with a towel over his shoulder and a disapproving squint in his eye.
The taxi slowed to a gentle stop right in front of the porch.
I paid the kind driver but remained in my seat for a second, just watching the house like it might disappear if I moved too fast.
It looked exactly the same—maybe a little more weather-beaten, but still stubbornly standing. The porch railing was still uneven. The door still had that faded 'WELCOME' mat I'd tripped over too many times.
Then, the screen door creaked open.
Still tall, still lean, still wearing that same beige work shirt and sun-faded jeans like they were stitched to his skin. His hands were on his hips, and there was a dish towel slung over one shoulder, just like I imagined.
His beard had more gray in it than I remembered, and the lines around his eyes had deepened—but those eyes? Still sharp. Still grey. Still full of stubborn love.
He squinted down the driveway, eyes landing on the taxi. Then narrowing.
Then widening.
And then—
"Li?" he said, like he couldn't quite believe it.
I stepped out, grinning so wide it hurt. "Surprise papa!"
He blinked a few times, took a cautious step off the porch, and then broke into a slow, crooked smile.
"I'll be damned."
He walked toward me with that half-limp he always insisted wasn't a limp, and I barely managed to drag my suitcase a few inches before he pulled me into a hug.
A real one. The kind that locked you in tight and didn't let go right away.
I buried my face in his chest. He still smelled like cedarwood and the earth. Like home.
"You didn't tell me you were coming," he said into my hair, voice a little hoarse.
"That was the point." I murmured.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. "You look thin"
I laughed. "I look the same."
He shook his head. "You don't."
I wanted to argue, but I knew better.
He took the suitcase handle from me without asking, and I let him. We walked up the porch together, his steps slower, mine lighter.
The ambience felt peaceful. And for the first time in what felt like forever, so did I.
•••