I absolutely despise going to the airport with Kyle.

For the first year and a half of our relationship, our dating life was punctuated by airport greetings and goodbyes.

We met in San Antonio at a conference, yet I was living in Houston, and Kyle was living in Miami. When we planned his first visit five months after meeting each other, we were euphoric. On this trip, Kyle would meet my family for the first time. We’d attempt a first kiss and clash teeth instead. Kyle would tell me he loved me, and I would respond, sing songy, “beee careful” (I said it back by the end of the trip, don’t worry).

We were not ready, however, for the ugly tears and the red eyes and the depths of silence on the drive to the airport. We’d just tasted what it’d be like to be in the same city. Our goodbyes were as difficult as you might expect for two young kids in love whose relationship was held together by Skype, text messages, and quarterly in-person visits.

Once Kyle moved to Houston, we boarded airplanes hand in hand. On these trips, we are married. He gets the aisle seat. Kyle packs the suitcases with impressive efficiency. When we counted down his move to Houston, it was about being together. It was about not ever having to say goodbye at an airport again.

Something as ridiculous as an airport drop-off makes my heart sink to the pit of my stomach and my head spin and my hands sweat. I didn’t consider there’d be things.. work trainings, family emergencies, whatever, that we wouldn’t both necessarily be flying to. It doesn’t particularly get easier because it reminds me of being 20/21 and how awful that felt, but I guess you could say, I’ve “grown up” about it. So, when it was time to drop off Kyle at the airport late last week, I hadn’t prepared for the collective, guttural sounds that emerged from the two car seats in the back, suddenly drowning out Paw Patrol.

Every time I’ve dropped off Kyle at an airport, I feel a heaviness that’s hard to shake. But I’m also a collected adult who doesn’t thrash and scream. Our 3- and 2-year old humans, though, haven’t quite learned societal norms regarding… feelings. I may be a “collected” adult, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know what they were feeling, that desperation I felt when I was 20 years old, watching the first and only boy I ever loved board a plane to fly 1,200 miles away from me.

The three of us sobbed as we drove away from the airport: one of us loudly repeating, “daddy??” and another one of us screaming, “No, daddy, no! I DON’T WANT DADDY TO GO ON AIRPLANE!!!” and another one of us whispering, “I don’t either, papito.”

Ten years ago, almost to the day, Kyle moved to Houston. Even though I don’t ever really sob anymore when we have to part ways at an airport, our children’s wailing took me back to a time I never thought I’d have to revisit; for some reason, though, it was much harder to bear.

Note: As of this post, I’ve picked up the love of my life from the airport, and the boys will see him in a little bit. We’re all fine. Everything’s fine.