It was still snowing in February, up in Maine, and my plane was delayed for 2 hours. I was tired, I was upset and I was anxious. We had a fight before my plane took off and the last thing I texted her was a rude and angry message. And now I was anxious that I had ruined it all. She had wanted me to take time off from work. Her intentions came from a good place, I knew that. She was worried that I was going to burn out in this job, with all these traveling, with all these long hours. But my boss was a slave driver, and asking for leave was never an easy thing. She knew that, too. Or she should have known that, by now.

I had snapped at her. I texted that I was doing this for both of us, adding a little snide remark that it must have been nice for her to be a stay at home person. That must have stung. That must have hurt.

I wanted to cry and take it all back. I would not be able to be who I am, to get where I’d gotten, without her by my side. I was being selfish and stupid and awful. And now, at the early hours in the morning, I was afraid to go home to my own bed.

Suddenly, a voice called out to me, and there she was, standing in the snow just outside of the arrival gate. She must have been standing a while since there was snow on her, but her smile was warm and full with love. I must have flown to her arms. She hugged me back. I said how sorry I was, about three thousand times.

She laughed. I was home. She was my home.