The Never-ending Journey

Can I sit here? His eyes plead as I look up. A man stands in front of me where there was once no one. I look at his clean, white sneakers on the grubby, worn carpet, then follow the line of his slim legs and grey sweater until I find his kind face. It is the same man I have been watching for the past half hour. I press my lips together, trying to form a smile. I adjust how I am sitting, though nothing about the space between us changes. I tuck my tote bag further underneath my legs, also changing nothing. Regardless, I hear him whisper “thanks”.

           I struggle to focus on the words filtering into my ears, knowing that he is now beside me. Just imagine you’re waking up and your children are not there, the presenter intones, what would you do? How would you feel? I want to immerse myself in her question, really picture what I would do the morning my children have gone missing. Or does she want me to imagine I never had children? But I can’t stop thinking about his presence next to mine. The one redeeming quality about airports is the people watching. Observing strangers shuttle past one other to different destinations under one roof has always been meditative for me. All of us together, just waiting for the next part of our journey to begin. I spotted him within a few minutes of scanning the busy terminal.

           “Where are you headed?” He asks. I still have my headphones in, but he must have noticed me looking around, my head oscillating like a tired fan.

           “Denver,” I respond while taking out my headphones. “You?”

           “Los Angeles.” He smiles so genuinely it makes my stomach ache.

           “What’s that you’re listening to?” My heart drops to my pelvis and I flip over my phone.

           “Oh, uh, just nothing. Boring stuff about being a mom.” I cringe at my admission that I am both boring and a mom.

           He eyes my ring-less hand and I eye his wedding band right back.

           “That’s, um, cool.” He stares down at the floor and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. That was way too personal. Hi, I’m David.” He holds up his hand as if we are attending a two-person recovery group.

           “Whitney.” I hold my hand up in solidarity. “Don’t apologize. I could have made some shit up, but instead I was just brutally honest. It’s actually not boring.”

           “Oh, cool.” He nods and looks down again. Fuck, he is already regretting sitting next to me. “Which part? The podcast or being a mom?”

           “Both, I guess.” Ok, maybe I read him wrong. He can’t be wishing he was somewhere else if he is still asking me questions, right? Or maybe he is one of those painfully polite people who would rather remain in an uncomfortable situation than publicly embarrass a stranger? I look into his patient, brown eyes and decide that yes, he is just one of those people.

           “I mean, being a mom is just…” I trail off and think about my twin girls. They are six years old, and the transition of my husband and I getting a divorce has been difficult. More difficult, I think, than it would have been if we had split up when our marriage truly started falling apart. Maybe then my sweet Victoria, who has always been so attached to her father, wouldn’t refuse to kiss me at night. Vivie, the oldest by eight minutes, is a little more forgiving, at least. Hindsight is a real bitch.

They are staying with my mother while I attended a work conference and I think about the mundaneness I will be returning to. Afterschool playdates at the park, battles over how much they are eating for dinner, morning dance recitals. The introduction of each new facet in their young lives initially filled my ex and I with excitement and hope. Excitement that this novelty would break us out of our rut. Hope that focusing their intense energies would lessen the chaos at home. And it did, for a moment. Then we would all adapt to the newness and fall back into old habits. My ex and I snapping at each other over dishes, clutter, and pediatrician bills. The girls feeding off our negative energy and having outbursts at the least convenient time. Is there ever a convenient time for an outburst?

In contrast, those first few years when I was at home with the girls and my ex and I stayed in our lanes felt smoother. Each with our own zones of control, me, the kids, him, his career, we were happy knowing we didn’t have to think about what the other person was doing. And with the girls’ needs changing so rapidly, I was never bored. There was no time to think about how each season made me feel. Then, suddenly, there was time and I wanted out. Not knowing what to do with the girls, my ex threw himself into work, going on more business trips, even during COVID. The girls and I cycled through sitters, throwing their routine into further disarray. Then my mom retired and hope returned. Then he cheated. Then I cheated. And we couldn’t ignore the loss of love any longer.

I look at David’s ring again, his expectant stare, and clear my throat. “Sorry, I’m just going through a lot right now. Being a mother is beautiful and heart-breaking and joyful and infuriating and all of the emotions stuffed into one big, long journey, that really, never ends.”

He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. Great, I think, I’ve done it now. “I’m really glad you said that.” He smiles so wide I fear his face and my heart will cleave in two. “My wife and I, we’re trying, well, we’ve been trying for a few years. For a baby. I’m flying home early because she’s, um, fertile? Sorry, if that’s too personal. I can’t talk to a lot of people about this. I guess I could, but if they’re not going through it, it’s hard for them to understand. If it doesn’t work next month, our next stop is IVF. It’s been…” Now he trails off, raking his fingers through his thick, dark hair. I think about my girls’ blonde curls, hair they got from me, and have an overwhelming urge to run my own fingers through them. “Well, a journey that we can’t see the end to yet. Like you said. And I know it will feel like the end when we have a baby, but maybe now is when our journey begins? No one we know with kids has ever told us anything like what you said. All the advice we get is “you better sleep now” or “it’s the best thing that will ever happen to you.” I mean, fuck, it should be, right? If it is taking us all this work to get there and, if afterward, it could break us apart, it should be the best thing!”

His knees are bouncing. He starts nibbling on his left thumb. Although I know I shouldn’t, my hands develop a mind of their own and reach out to touch his thighs. The bouncing stops.

“You are the best dad for that future kid of yours. And your wife is the best mom. Someone told me that once and, through the sleepless nights, mind-numbing days, I have never doubted that truth. I hope it helps you. And maybe if you do IVF, you’ll get twins like I did.”

There it is. That skin-splitting smile again. Then I remember the last time I saw another person that happy. It was when my husband held our daughters after they were born. I wish I could bottle his joy and take it back home with me. Instead, I return my hands to my own lap and hope I am smiling just as brightly back at him.