We had only been in this country for 3 days. We had a lovely vacation from my job and Jo’s school life but our time had ultimately, and sadly, come to an end. I sighed, closing the door of the bathroom as I looked around. Jo and I had just checked in for our flight and were waiting in the terminal area when I had to use the bathroom. Jo was old enough, she was turning nine in only three weeks, so I had decided to leave her with the bags while I went. I walked over to the uncomfortable grey chairs we had claimed, but everything was gone; all of our bags, her phone charger, the phone she had been playing on, my backpack, even the M&M bag I had left and told her playfully not to eat. I tried not to look worried. After all, she was without a doubt watching me, about to jump out from behind a trash can or the reception desk, to tease me about how scared I looked and show me a grainy picture of my face, puckered in the way I look when I am trying hard to keep calm; but nobody lept from behind the trash can or the reception desk, or anywhere for that matter. I started to pace, calling her name once in a while, trying and failing not to look like a desperate and pathetic mother who lost her kid.

The intercom crackled to life overhead, “Flight 316 to O'Hare Airport, Chicago now boarding all priority members and handicapped customers…”

I stopped listening, figuring I had only about five minutes before they called my boarding group, I gave up trying to stay composed and sprinted back to the restroom line. I skidded to a stop, frantically swinging my head like a dog on a scent, calling out loud enough that people started to whisper, tapping their partners on the shoulder, shaking their heads in silent judgment while simultaneously pulling their children closer. I ignored them all, tunnel-visioned on finding my daughter. I pushed through the line so savagely children jumped out of the way. I persisted, stopping only for a second once in the bathroom to call her name again. No answer. I flew past the line once more, painstakingly aware of the ticking seconds and hurtled down the terminal hallway, screaming her name, so loud that the security guards that had been dozing just moments before were now on their feet, muttering into handheld radios. Two barrel-chested guards block my path, and I reluctantly slowed.  The guard mumbles, incoherent, aggravated sentences I couldn’t understand.

“I can’t understand you!” I yelled, “I need to find my daughter!” The other man attempted to put his meaty hand on my shoulder in an effort to force me to a full stop but I jumped and resumed my full sprint.   

The intercom crackled again. I stopped, hoping desperately it’s a lost child announcement about to grace me with her name and a place to find her, safe and sound, waiting for me impatiently while tapping her foot. But it only carried more bad news.

“Last boarding call for flight 316 to O’Hare Airport Chicago, once again, last call boarding for flight 316”

I looked back one more time towards the boarding area, and made the split second decision to disregard the flight. I tried to think clearly. If I were a lost nine year old girl, where would I go? I became sluggish as the realization and horror of what has happened sets in. My heart slowed and my mind stops racing. The world dulled and sounds muted. I walked, suspended in silence, towards the boarding area. I looked into the other boarding sections, the men's bathroom, the restaurants and the lines for kiosks and coffee shops. When I dragged past the final terminal of the corridor, the swinging of a thick plastic door caught my eye. The material fluttered and sounds of the city streets and heavy machinery drift past. I floated through it, ignoring the red markings and foreign lettering. I glanced around, surveying the alcove until I see it. Shuddering in a corner, under the wing of a machine covered by a dusty tarp, is Jo. The world crashed to life around me, the sound of jet engines was deafening, the color of the dust was a pasty white, the air was freezing cold and my daughter was in front of me. I grabbed her, frantic once again, and she looked up, clearly terrified until she realized it was me. She crashed into me, holding on to a lifeline in a gaping ocean.

When we separated she told me about how while I went to the bathroom, she had walked over to the window to see the planes and when she came back to our chairs, everything was gone. She had panicked and ran, scared of getting in trouble, and when she finally calmed down she had no idea where she was. We stayed, huddled in the frigid air of the airplane hangar for what seemed like hours, until I could breathe normally and my heart beat confidently. We straightened up, stiff and frozen, and wandered aimlessly back to the front entrance of huge double doors. When I stepped out into the pulsating sunlight with my daughter by my side, I felt nothing but warmth spreading, from my face into my fingertips down to my toes. And with that slow, widening feeling came the definite knowledge that despite the stolen luggage, I lost nothing today.