Airports have a rhythm of their own, and in Terminal B, I noticed a small boy moving alone—hesitant, scared, clutching his backpack. No one called his name. My heart tightened.
“Hey, buddy,” I said softly. “Are you okay?”
He whispered, “Tommy.”
Inside his backpack, I found an airline ticket. My last name: Harrison. My chest froze. My brother Ryan—my missing brother—was his father.
We went to security together, hand in hand, the weight of years pressing down. Then Ryan appeared, frantic and unshaven, and knelt to hug his son. I watched, stunned and uncertain.
Finally, he faced me, guilt and shock in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for staying with him.”
“Is he… my nephew?” I asked.
Ryan nodded. Tommy beamed. “Are we gonna see him again?” the boy asked.
Ryan looked at me, then smiled faintly. “Maybe we can try.”
It wasn’t forgiveness. Not full reconciliation. But it was a beginning—a chance to reconnect, and sometimes, that’s enough.
