The Flight Home Feels Like a Verdict Before You Land
The moment the aircraft tilts toward the city and you see the river and the rooftops through the window, something tightens in your chest that has nothing to do with turbulence. You have been away long enough that the return trip carries its own grammar. You know the auto fare from the airport. You know your mother will have made something you mentioned once, months ago, in a phone call you barely remember. You know your sibling will be there, already settled into the kitchen, already part of the furniture in a way you stopped being the year you left.
