Everything was perfectly planned for our long-awaited Aruba vacation—until the morning of our departure, when my passport mysteriously vanished. I had spent weeks preparing, from matching luggage to neatly organized travel folders containing all of our documents: mine, my husband Nathan’s, and our daughter Emma’s. I was eager for a break—sunshine, sandy beaches, and time to unwind as a family.
But that morning, just before we were about to leave, I reached for our travel folder and noticed something strange. My passport, which had been placed neatly on top the night before, was missing.
At first, I chalked it up to a last-minute mix-up. I searched the kitchen, the guest room, the trash—every possible place. Nothing. As the clock ticked down toward our departure, panic set in. Without my passport, I couldn’t fly, and our carefully planned trip risked unraveling completely.
Adding to my unease was an offhand remark from my mother-in-law, Donna, who was joining us on the trip: “Maybe you weren’t meant to go.” It struck me as oddly timed and unsettling.
Let me backtrack. We’d invited Donna to join us a couple of weeks before the trip, after she expressed feeling lonely and left out. I had reservations, given our sometimes-complicated relationship, but agreed for the sake of family harmony. She stayed over the night before our departure to make our early morning airport run easier.
That night, while I tried to relax at home, Donna spent an unusual amount of time asking Nathan for help with our smart speaker. It felt more like a distraction than a genuine need, but I brushed it off.
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