Your mother will always tell you, “Darlin’, it is okay to cry in the airports.”
One month after my first major breakup, I told mom and dad that I would quit Brown. Or at least defer for a semester. Without hesitating, they flew half the globe to my school, in the midst of spring, postponing both of their jobs, in an attempt to heal my broken heart. Only one caveat: mom was unexpectedly pregnant.
The day I saw them off, mom was struggling not to nauseate, dad was trying to carry the heavy luggages all by himself. I couldn’t help crying. I realized it was my first time crying in the airport because of my parents. And I was no stranger to airport tears. In fact, that’s all I’d ever done in airports.
But up until then, it had always been tears from saying good byes with my then long-distance, now ex, boyfriend.
That day, my eyes were blurred, but my mind was clear. Your mother will always tell you it is okay to cry in the airports, but you will tell her: no, my tears are saved for you.