I was seven months pregnant.
The plan was simple:
Get to the airport on time.
Get on the plane.
Land.
Hug Hank.
Melt into the mattress.
I had already texted my husband, Hank: “I’ll be home soon. The baby and I want pasta with extra cheese.”
His reply made me smile: “Already boiling the water, Sum. Can’t wait to see you.”
“The baby and I want pasta with extra cheese.”
But the universe had other plans.
I waddled through security, yes, waddled, and there is no shame in calling it what it is when your ankles look like you have lost a fight with a bee swarm, barely making it to my gate before final boarding.
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