Page 102 of One Little Mistake

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry… but he’s listed among the crew members who were taken captive…”

“Wait—are you sure it’s him? Could it be another Max Taylor? Can we check the date of birth or something?”

“I understand. Let me verify that for you. One moment, please.”

As the hold music plays in my ear, I pray. I pray with everything I have that it’s not my Max. What are the chances, really? That pirates—fucking pirates—in this day and age,attacked his ship of all ships? Hope burns for exactly twenty seconds before the dispatcher returns and shatters my world.

I don’t hear the rest. My phone slips from my fingers. I collapse to the floor and cry silently, my body shaking. Just let him be alive. Please, don’t let anything happen to him.

The following days play out like a loop: wake up, call for updates on the captive sailors, feed Tim, put together a few bouquets just to keep myself from spiraling, feed Tim again, play with him, take a walk with the stroller, stare at the phone with a lump in my throat, call the hotline again.

Nothing.

Day one.

Day two.

Day three.

Still nothing.

The silence eats me alive. It all feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from. The thought that I may never see Max again makes me want to claw at the walls. The only thing that keeps me from losing it completely is our son. Because of him, I keep going. I stay functional. I live. And I wait for a miracle.

And just when I think I’ve run out of hope—after the most agonizing three weeks of my life—the voice on the other end of the line says something different.

“Max Taylor? We actually called you earlier today. You’re his wife, right?”

“Yes,” I reply, my voice trembling, afraid she’s about to say the worst. I lean on the table for support—my legs feel like they might give out.

“Everything’s alright, Mrs. Taylor. You can meet your husband tomorrow.”

“What? When?”

“Tomorrow at 7:00 PM,” she tells me the flight number, but I still can’t believe it. That it’s over. That it’s real.

“Oh my God, really? Really?” I cry, my voice breaking as tears stream down my cheeks.

“Absolutely. He’ll be on board. Everything’s confirmed.”

“Thank you so much, thank you,” I laugh through my tears and pinch my wrist to make sure I’m not dreaming. Then I grab Tim and rush to the supermarket. I need to cook something for Max—my always-hungry man.

I can’t sleep that night. I clean, pace the apartment, try to choose the perfect outfit to meet him in. I wait. I wait for his call. Because if everything’s okay, if he’s flying in tomorrow, he should call. He should know I’m losing my mind over here.

I get to the airport two hours early. I just can’t stay cooped up in the apartment a second longer—I need to be as close to him as possible.

I wait.

Wait endlessly.

Wait with my heart in my throat.

I check the arrival board a dozen times, praying the plane lands early—even if it’s just ten minutes. I pace back and forth through the terminal. I take Tim to the restroom twice to change his diaper, terrified that I’ll miss Max coming through the gate in that exact moment.

Finally, they announce the arrival. People start crowding around the exit. The wait is agonizing. I pull out a compact mirror and check my makeup. I can’t resist—I dial Max’s number, but his phone is still off.

The stuffy air, the nerves, the blur of unfamiliar faces—it all becomes too much. I feel lightheaded, but I don’t care. Not now. Not when I’m this close.

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