The air at LAX always had a strange kind of weight. Maybe it was all the hellos and goodbyes stitched into the walls. Or maybe it was just me, standing there, suitcase beside me, staring at the departure gate like it might eat me whole.

Mom parked the car in the quiet section of the terminal lot, but neither of us made a move to get out right away. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, a quiet echo to the silence sitting between us.

“I had six miscarriages before you,” she said.

I turned ...