Airliner coffee tastes like regret.

Not fresh regret.

Like regret that’s been reheated at 30,000 feet and poured into a paper cup that says enjoy your journey while laughing quietly at you.

I’m holding that coffee like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. My tray table is covered in biscotti crumbs  the kind that cling to your clothes and your soul and I’m trying not to think about the fact that we’ve already been awake for fourteen years. Or hours. Same thing.

We finally make it through security.

Shoes on. Shoes off. Shoes on again.

Backpacks exploded. Liquids confiscated. Someone crying because their emotional support stuffed animal had to go through the scanner alone.

We get to the gate.

I exhale.

I believe.

I dare to hope.

Then the screen changes.

Gate change.

Not nearby.

Not reasonable.

Across the airport.

In another time zone. Possibly another dimension.

So we gather our things snacks, documents, kids, sanity and begin the Great Airport Migration. I’m speed-walking like a woman who knows boarding will begin early and end without mercy. One kid is excited. One kid is confused. One kid is suddenly feral.

I briefly consider buying inflight internet.

Not because I want to work.

Not because I need to check email.

But because silence has a dollar value, and right now it’s tempting.

Then I see the price.

Twenty-something dollars.

For Wi-Fi that may or may not load a single webpage and will absolutely abandon me the second we hit turbulence.

I decide against it.

I am cheap when it comes to my sanity.

I will raw-dog this flight with biscotti crumbs, regret coffee, and vibes alone.

I sip the coffee like a woman who’s made her choice and must now live with it.

International travel with kids is wild because the emotional experience is not shared.

For them?

✨Adventure.✨

✨Planes!✨

✨Moving sidewalks and escalators that feel like amusement park rides!✨

For me?

Spreadsheets.

Passports.

Time math.

Backup plans.

Backup backup plans.

And the constant internal chant of please don’t let anyone touch anything or disappear.

At some point, one of the kids gets briefly stuck on an escalator not injured, just emotionally offended by it while strangers politely pretend not to watch me juggle bags, coffee, and panic.

There are highs.

There are lows.

There is the joy of watching your kids’ eyes light up at the sheer size of the world… and the stress of knowing you are the sole keeper of every document that proves they belong to you.

There is laughter.

There is caffeine.

There are crumbs everywhere.

And somehow between gate changes, escalators, and that awful coffee you realize this is it.

The chaos.

The magic.

The exhaustion.

The memories they’ll remember as the best trip ever.

I’ll remember it as biscotti crumbs, a paper cup of jet-fuel coffee, and sprinting across an airport whispering, “We are doing GREAT,” through clenched teeth.

Both things can be true.