My Son Slammed the Door on Me. The Next Morning, My Phone Exploded.

“Okay,” I said.

But we didn’t figure it out. Another month passed. Then another.

And that’s when I made the decision. I bought a plane ticket and didn’t tell anyone. Part of me wanted it to be a sweet surprise, but the truth was darker: I needed to see with my own eyes that everything was okay.

What kind of grandma goes seven months without seeing her grandbabies and doesn’t start feeling that late-night knot in her stomach? The Arrival
The flight to Tampa was two hours. I spent most of it staring out the window, rehearsing what I’d say.

“Surprise! I couldn’t wait any longer to see you.”

Or maybe: “I was in the area and thought I’d stop by.”

Or the truth: “I’ve been worried sick and I needed to see my family.”

I took a taxi straight from the airport into a quiet Florida neighborhood lined with trimmed lawns and flags on mailboxes. Marcus’s house was a two-story cream-colored colonial with black shutters and a tidy porch.