Gate 53

I sit at Gate 53 with two suitcases, a backpack under my feet, and a seven-year-old who keeps kicking the metal chair.

“Eli, enough,” I mutter. “The chair isn’t a drum.”

He pauses for three seconds, then starts again.

“I’m bored,” he complains.

“I know. Me too.”

Above us, the board glows: FLIGHT 427 – BOSTON – ON TIME. I stare at it until the letters smear. Boston. New job. New school. New apartment. No Mark. No overnight shifts that overlap with his. No familiar grocery store. No routes I can walk half asleep.

My phone buzzes.

Parking. Two minutes. The text says. I frown.

“You okay, Mom?” Eli asks.

“I’m fine,” I answer. “Just checking the time.”

“You were crying last night,” he reminds me. “In the bathroom.”

My shoulders tense. “You heard that?”

I kneel to his level. The backpack strap digs into my knee. “Sometimes adults cry when things change,” I tell him. “Big changes can hurt, even when they’re supposed to help.”

“Is this a good big change or a bad big change?” he presses.

“Both,” I admit. “It can be both.”

He studies my face. Then he nods, not entirely convinced.

The automatic doors at the concourse entrance slide open. Mark walks in, scanning the crowd. Same hospital hoodie, same long stride, more gray at his temples. His gaze lands on Eli first, then me.

“Hey, buddy,” he greets as he reaches us. “Ready for your big flight?”

Eli launches into his arms. Mark hoists him with a slight grunt.

“You made it,” I remark.

He looks at me over Eli’s shoulder. “I told you I would.” The words carry a defensive edge.

He glances up at the board. “You’re boarding in, what, forty minutes?”

“Fifty,” I correct. “We’re okay.”

“Security has been a mess all week,” he counters.

“We’re still okay.”

“Can we get smoothies?” Eli cuts in.

“Smoothies are fine,” I add. “You can get one before we go in.”

Eli claps. “Yes.”

We start toward the food court. Mark falls into step beside me. We move in that half-synchronized way of people who used to live together and aren’t sure where their bodies fit now.

“You really went through with it,” he comments after a moment. “The job. The apartment. All of it.”

“Yes,” I respond.

“So that’s it,” he states. “Fifteen years in this city and you just cut it loose.”

Anger climbs my throat. “You think this is casual?” I challenge. “You think I woke up and tossed a dart at a map?”

“You never wanted to discuss staying,” he fires back.

“You presented it like a formality. ‘By the way, I’m moving to Boston, please sign here.’”

“I asked for your input,” I remind him.

“You informed me,” he returns. “There’s a difference.”

We reach the smoothie counter. Eli flattens his face against the glass. “Strawberry banana with boba,” he announces.

We find a small table near the window. Eli digs into his drink as if it might evaporate.

Mark braces his forearms on the table. “We need to talk.”

“We already did,” I answer. “For months. With lawyers and mediators and bills that could pay for a year of college.”

“I don’t mean court talk,” he clarifies. “I mean real talk. Without someone charging by the sixth of an hour.”

“We have thirty minutes,” I remind him. “Use them.”

He flinches at the edge in my tone. “That document you sent last week—the new custody draft—”

“The one you refused to sign,” I cut in.

“The one that turns me into a holiday prop,” he counters. “Two weeks in summer. One Thanksgiving every other year. That’s not parenting. That’s guest status.”

“It’s a long-distance plan,” I argue. “You agreed to long-distance.”

“I agreed because you and your attorney cornered me,” he snaps. “You know how judges react to fathers who object to a ‘career opportunity.’

“You could have supported it without resenting every second,” I fire back.

“You’re putting three time zones between my son and me,” he responds.

“Our son,” I correct.

His jaw tightens. “You didn’t just make a decision,” he fires back. “You tore up the life we made and handed me a schedule like discharge instructions. You cast me as the villain.”

“You started that story years ago,” I answer. “Every time you stayed at the hospital instead of coming home, each time you dismissed me when I tried to tell you how lonely I was, whenever you flirted with residents in front of me and told me I was imagining it.”

His eyes harden. “Nothing happened,” he insists. “I repeated that a hundred times.”

“You told me I was crazy,” I remind him.

His mouth opens, then shuts again. He looks away.

“Mom?” Eli calls. “Look, that plane is huge.”

A wide-body jet waits at the next gate, nose toward the glass.

“It is,” I acknowledge. “Don’t smear the window.”

Mark watches Eli, then faces me again. His voice drops. “Whatever I messed up… this move hits him harder than it hits me,” he mutters. “You know that.”

“It’s not punishment,” I counter. “I can’t keep walking past the trauma bay where they wheeled you in after you fell asleep at the wheel. I can’t cross the same hallway where we hashed out our marriage in whispers and lost anyway.”

“You think Boston erases that?” he challenges.

“No,” I admit. “But it gives me a chance to function without constant flashbacks.”

“And I’m supposed to stand here without him and call that fair,” he retorts.

We glare at each other across the table.

An announcement crackles overhead. “Attention passengers on Flight 427 to Boston. Due to weather conditions, departure is delayed. New estimated departure time: five forty-five p.m.”

I check the time. Two fifteen.

“Three hours,” I mutter.

“Perfect,” Mark comments. “Extra time to keep stabbing each other.”

“I can take Eli to the bookstore,” I offer. “You can leave. We already did the emotional surgery in court.”

He studies me. “You honestly think this is finished?” he asks.

“It ends us,” I respond.

“No, ‘Us’ ended a long time ago,” he replies quietly. “This is about him now.”

He leans forward. “ Let’s try this differently,” he suggests. “You first. What do you want for him? Not for you. For him.”

I stare at the plastic lid of my coffee. “Stability,” I answer. “Predictable school. A parent who isn’t a corpse on the couch. A place where rent gets paid without me working every holiday shift.”

“And for yourself?” he presses.

“Sleep,” I admit. “Less panic at three a.m. A life not built around your call schedule.”

He nods slowly. “Okay,” he concedes. “I want him to know I’m present. Not just a voice on a screen. Not some guy who flies in twice a year with gifts from the airport. I want him to feel like he has two parents, not one and a backup.”

“You can still visit,” I remind him.

“Not with the plan you sent,” he counters. “That plan gives me scraps. I want a real schedule. Long blocks. Regular contact.”

“You still work eighty hours a week,” I point out.

“I am changing that,” he insists.

I narrow my eyes. “Since when?”

“Since the night I almost killed myself and a stranger on the freeway,” he answers flatly. I cut back, lost some overtime, but kept my license. Still here. I can cut more.

I blink. “You never told me that,” I murmur.

“You never wanted to hear anything that didn’t fit the story,” he scoffed.

The words hit harder than I expected.

Eli spins his straw, bored. “Can I go look at the Lego stand?” he asks.

“Stay where I can see you,” I instruct. He nods and trots toward a nearby kiosk.

“We are not doing another full trial,” I warn. “I can’t sit in another courtroom while strangers rewrite our history and your attorney recites my worst moments.”

“I don’t want that either,” he responds.

“You talk like compromise is easy,” I remark.

“I talk like compromise is the only option,” he counters. “Unless you plan to cut me out entirely. And you don’t. I know you don’t.”

I press my thumb into the cardboard until it crumples. “What do you propose?” I ask.

He straightens. “School year with you in Boston,” he begins. “Summer with me here. Not ten random days. Real summer. One week during winter break with me. Alternating spring breaks. And one weekend a month, I fly to Boston. Hotel, time with him, then I bring him back.”

“You think the surgical department will let you vanish one weekend every month?” I challenge.

“I will make them,” he replies. “Or I will find another position.”

“You love that hospital,” I remind him.

“I love my son more,” he returns.

The words hang between us.

“You can’t just uproot your life next week,” I caution.

“I am not promising to move,” he clarifies. “I am promising to bend. To adjust. To show up. You keep repeating that you don’t trust me. Fair. I earned that. Give me a structure where I can prove I mean it.”

“You expect me to rely on your word?” I ask. “After everything?”

“No,” he answers. “I expect you to rely on a document we both sign that forces us to do what we claim we want.”

He has a point, and he knows it. I thought.

I glance over at Eli. He is focused on a display plane, lips moving as he makes sound effects.

He inhales slowly, holds it, lets it out. “Okay,” he mutters. “How about this. Six weeks in summer. Week around New Year’s. Alternating spring break. And I still fly monthly.”

“Six weeks is the entire break,” I object. “I checked his school calendar. It’s on the website.”

“You can visit during that time,” he offers.

“With what money?” I snap. “You think this new job comes with a built-in travel grant?”

“Then we build our own,” he replies. “Joint account. Automatic deposits from both of us every paycheck. Only for travel: his flights, my flights. No pizza emergencies. No impulse gadgets. Just visits.”

“You forget to pay the electric bill half the time,” I remind him. “Now you want a shared account?”

“That is what automatic withdrawal is for,” he answers. “You are good with systems. Set it up so the bank does the remembering.”

I picture arguing over money. I also picture Eli’s face when a monthly visit actually happens.

“What happens when you cancel?” I push. “When a surgery runs over. When you pick up another shift. When ‘something came up’ again.”

His gaze locks onto mine. “Then I lose the right to complain about being pushed out,” he states.

“You would hand me that?” I challenge.

“I’m handing myself a boundary - one I refuse to break,” he replies. “You get to use it against me if I do.”

“I don’t trust you,” I repeat quietly. “Not really.”

He nods once. “That’s fair,” he acknowledges. “I wouldn’t trust me either from your side of the story. That’s something. Start there.”

“Maybe another day,” I reply.

He slumps. “Everything is ‘another day,’” he mutters.

The line slices through both of us.

Another announcement cracks through the noise.

“Passengers on Flight 427 to Boston, your flight is now delayed further. New estimated departure time: six forty-five p.m.”

The gate area groans in unison. I rub my forehead.

“The universe hates me,” I mutter.

“Or it’s forcing us to stop being idiots,” Mark remarks.

“Don’t start with fate,” I warn. “You know how I feel about that.”

“You used to enjoy when I hunted for signs,” he reminds me.

“I used to enjoy a lot of things,” I reply.

“Fine,” he continues. “Let’s pin this down. No drama. Just numbers.”

He almost smiles. “Six weeks of summer,” he repeats. “Week at New Year’s. Alternating spring break. Monthly visits with the shared travel fund. Weekly video calls, same days and times, so he knows what to expect.”

“Four weeks of summer,” I answer. “Week at New Year’s. Alternating spring break. Monthly visits as long as the fund allows. Twice-weekly calls. He likes to ramble about everything.”

“Five weeks,” he offers. “Middle ground. You visit once during that span. I cover half your ticket.”

“You can’t even guarantee your own flights,” I remind him.

“I schedule around them like I schedule operating time,” he insists. “These weekends become non-negotiable in my calendar.”

“Your attendings will love that,” I remark.

“They will adapt,” he shoots back. “Or I will find another hospital. I am not repeating my father’s pattern.”

“Which is,” I ask.

He exhales slowly. “He left when I was eight,” he explains. “Drop-offs turned into missed weekends. Missed weekends turned into two visits a year. Then nothing. My mother never recovered. I promised myself I would never do that to my kid. I can’t control your move to Boston. I can control whether I fade out.”

My throat tightens. I stare at my hands. “Five weeks in summer,” I concede. “Week at New Year’s. Alternating spring break. Monthly visits while the fund has money. Twice-weekly calls. Travel account with auto-deposits. Missed visits documented.”

“And no more trashing each other to friends or family,” he adds. “Or to him. You irritate me. I infuriate you.”

“You called me unstable in court,” I remind him.

“I regret that,” he responds. “I was angry and scared, and I went for the cheap shot. I’m done with that tactic.”

The apology is rough, but real.

“We take this to mediation,” I state. “We tell them we reached terms.“We sign it,” he finishes. “We follow it.”

“Or we go back to war,” I warn.

“Or we go back to war,” he echoes.

We extend our hands at the same time. Our fingers meet. His grip is firm, familiar. Something tight in my chest twists, then loosens. This is not a vow. This is a contract, I remind myself.

“Deal,” I confirm.

“Deal,” he replies.

Eli stares at our joined hands. “Are you getting married again?” he asks.

We both bark out a short laugh.

“No,” Mark answers quickly. “Different kind of agreement.”

“Like a work meeting?” Eli guesses.

“Something like that,” I respond. “Except the project is you.”

His eyes widen. “I’m the project?”

“In a good way,” Mark adds. “You’re the most important one here.”

Eli thinks that over. “Okay,” he decides.

“You know this doesn’t fix us,” I remark quietly.

“I know,” he replies. “We’re not fixable. We cracked too many times.”

“But maybe we can do better as a team for him,” he continues. “Not as a couple. As something else.”

“Co-managers of one small human,” I suggest.

“That sounds boring,” he comments. “But accurate.”

Time crawls. We end up on the carpet near the window playing cards. Mark shuffles badly and drops half the deck. Eli laughs. I watch them gather scattered cards and feel a twist of resentment and relief. I am leaving this. I am not erasing this for him.

At last, the board flips: FLIGHT 427 – BOSTON – BOARDING 7:00 P.M.

“This is actually happening,” I murmur.

“Yeah,” Mark answers.

We join the line for Group B. The agent calls out instructions. People squeeze closer, carrying half their lives in wheeled bags.

I kneel in front of Eli one more time. “You ready?” I ask.

He nods, but his eyes shine suspiciously.

“This is a big move,” I remind him. “It might feel weird. You can tell me when it does. You can call Dad whenever you want, not just on our scheduled days.”

“For real?” he says.

“For real,” I confirm. “Even if we’re in the middle of dinner.”

“Especially if you’re in the middle of dinner,” Mark adds. “You’re on my speed dial, buddy.” Mark hands Eli the phone and points to Eli’s name. A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth.

“This isn’t goodbye forever,” Mark tells him. “It’s ‘see you in a few weeks.’ I’m flying out as soon as we set up that travel account. We shook on it.”

Eli studies his face. “You promise?” he presses.

“I promise,” Mark answers. “And your mom will make sure I stick to it.”

“I will,” I echo.

They hug. Eli clamps his arms around Mark’s neck like he wants to lock him in place. Mark’s eyes close for a second. When he opens them, they’re wet. He blinks hard.

“Okay, champ,” he murmurs. “Go with Mom. Text me when you land. Video call tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Eli agrees.

We move to the boarding line. I hand over our passes. The agent scans them and offers a practiced smile.

“Have a safe flight,” she wishes.

“Thanks,” I reply.

At the mouth of the jet bridge, I look back. Mark stands at the rope line, hands in his pockets, shoulders tight. He lifts his hand in a small wave. I raise mine in return.

For the first time since I told him I was moving, his face doesn’t look like a shut door. It looks tired, angry, hopeful, and resigned all at once. Messy. Human.

I step onto the jet bridge with Eli. The air is cooler here, filled with the hum of the plane.

My marriage is over. That ending stands. Solid, complete. But this new arrangement—this rough handshake at Gate 53—feels like something else.

Not love. Not friendship.

The beginning of a different kind of us.

For now, that has to be enough.

Only then did I notice Mark’s iPhone buzzing in Eli’s carry-on. I retrieved the phone and found this message displayed:

“Stormy. Incall. 10p. Confirm Y or N.”