When my husband’s plane began taxiing toward the runway, I was already searching for my keys. It was a gray Tuesday at Phoenix Sky Harbor, a dry, bright morning where everything seemed normal. Daniel Mercer, my husband, had kissed our six-year-old son on the forehead, me on the cheek, and had rolled his suitcase toward security as if for a simple three-day business trip to Chicago. He had even waved.
I returned the favor.
