Before the plane even touched down in Tampa, two deputies and an airline supervisor were waiting at the end of the jet bridge. I watched from Phoenix on a video call, Lily asleep against my shoulder, her purple backpack still on her lap. My father walked out first, laughing, his sleep mask hanging around his neck. “Is there a problem, officer?” he asked.

The deputy unfolded a printed page. “Sir, you signed a custody acknowledgement for a minor child at check-in.” My father’s smile slipped. Then the supervisor lifted a phone, and a small voice played through its speaker. It was Lily’s, recorded on the bench. My mother whispered, “Dana, you wouldn’t.” Brooke’s champagne glass slipped from her hand. Behind them, the other passengers slowed and stared.