PART 1: THE BENCH AT JFK

I had just returned from London when I found my daughter-in-law sitting beneath the harsh lights of JFK Airport with my four-year-old grandson asleep in her arms and three battered suitcases beside her. Elena’s face was streaked with tears, and she was gripping a crumpled envelope so tightly that her fingers had turned white. She flinched when I called her name, as if she had spent the entire day expecting another threat instead of help. I dropped my briefcase, crouched beside her, and touched Leo’s hand. He was warm but exhausted from crying.

“Elena, what happened? Why are you here?”

“You weren’t supposed to return until tomorrow.”

“My meetings ended early. Tell me what happened.”