She came out of nowhere.
One second I was standing near my gate, boots planted, coffee in hand. The next, a little girl sprinted across the terminal, threw herself against my leg, and screamed at the top of her lungs:
“GRANDPA!”
She clung to me like I was the only solid thing in the world, burying her face in my jeans and sobbing so hard her whole body shook.
I froze.
I hadn’t seen this child before in my life.
I slowly lifted my hands, palms open, terrified of making the wrong move. I was six-foot-three, built like a truck, covered in tattoos, wearing my motorcycle club vest. I knew exactly how I looked to strangers.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said softly. “I’m not your grandpa.”
She didn’t loosen her grip. If anything, she held on tighter.
People were staring now. A woman reached for her phone. A father subtly shifted his kids behind him. And there I was—looking like every parent’s worst fear—with a crying child attached to my leg.
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