Then he reached up to adjust the air vent.

I saw the thin pale scar near his wrist.

The cabin noise seemed to disappear.

I remembered cleaning that exact wound in our kitchen while Grant joked that I worried too much.

Then the woman beside him whispered something.

He smiled.

His thumb moved across his bare ring finger.

I stopped breathing.

## The Face I Had Mourned

When the plane landed, I waited instead of rushing into the aisle.

Miles stayed close.

Several rows ahead, the man stood and reached for his carry-on.

He was thinner than Grant had been. More gray showed at his temples. The beard changed his jawline.

But as he turned toward the exit, the overhead lights fell directly across his face.

It was him.

Not someone similar.

Not a stranger reshaped by grief.

Grant.

My husband.

The man I had spent almost three years believing would never walk through another airport, hold his son, or grow older.

Miles squeezed my hand.

“Mom?”

I couldn’t answer.

Grant walked down the jet bridge beside the blonde woman, briefly resting his hand against her back.

He never looked behind him.

I followed from a distance.

At baggage claim, they collected two suitcases and headed toward the rental-car counters.