海角大神

I聽imagine the fluorescent lights of Fort Lauderdale international airport buzzing quietly overhead as my mother stands in the customs hall, waiting, waiting.聽

Back home, in my kitchen, I check the flight tracker app again. It shows that Spirit Airlines Flight 237 from Medell铆n, Colombia, landed 37 minutes ago. I refresh again; the motion has become almost automatic. No text message yet.

I picture my mother in the customs hall, silver hair pinned neatly back, clutching her navy blue American passport. Her shoulders squared, her smile ready. Having lived most of her life in the United States, she shouldn鈥檛 have to feel nervous about coming home.

鈥淛ust checking if Mom made it through customs?鈥� I text my dad, aiming for a casual tone. He calls back instead.

鈥淣othing yet,鈥� he says gently. 鈥淧robably nothing.鈥�

I glance at the clock, pacing my kitchen. 鈥淏ut you know how it鈥檚 been lately,鈥� he adds.

I never imagined that I would be standing in my kitchen, nervous about my mother鈥檚 return flight 鈥� not because of the plane, but because of what could happen afterward.

Each morning, my news feed carries stories that weigh on my mind: individuals detained despite being U.S. citizens, Native Americans questioned about their right to be in their own country, children who are American citizens being deported alongside relatives who were here without authorization.

These stories stay with me, not because they are the norm, but because they suggest that mistakes, though rare, can happen. And when something goes wrong, it often unfolds in those bright, hectic spaces like customs halls, where everyone feels slightly out of place.

Once, my mother was detained at an airport for carrying cash hidden beneath her clothing, a common practice in Colombia to guard against theft while traveling.

鈥淭hey made me strip down to my underwear,鈥� she said at the time, matter-of-factly. 鈥淭hey counted every bill twice.鈥�

It was a reminder that even ordinary precautions could be misunderstood under scrutiny. Not maliciously, perhaps, but just through the imperfect lens of fast-moving, high-pressure procedures.

Thanks to years of experience, my mother knows how to travel. She arrived in the U.S. when she was 12 years old and is a dual citizen of the United States and Colombia. Over the decades, she built a life from the ground up: earning a master鈥檚 degree, buying a home, raising a family.

Now retired, she divides her time between south Florida and Colombia. In Colombia, her modest pension stretches further. She visits aunts, cousins, and old friends, walking streets once lined with childhood memories of struggle, now viewed through the lens of gratitude.

Last week, cleaning out a pantry shelf, I found a hidden gelatina, a pumpkin-spiced marshmallow from a mountain village near Medell铆n. The sight made me smile: a small, sweet link to our family鈥檚 traditions.聽

Though our traditions span two countries, my mother鈥檚 roots remain firmly planted here, in the States. Each return flight brings her back not just to home, but to a life woven deeply into this country鈥檚 fabric.

Each time my mother鈥檚 plane touches down, my mind races a familiar route. How long does customs usually take? Would she know how to explain things quickly if asked? Would the agents recognize without hesitation what I know 鈥� that she belongs here as much as anyone else?

Finally, my phone buzzes. 鈥淎ll clear,鈥� her message reads.

Relief spreads through me. Tonight, my mother will sleep in her own bed, in her own home, the one she earned, the one she nurtured for decades.

Every time she travels, we go through this small, private ritual of worry.聽

The waiting reminds me how fragile belonging can feel, even when it has been lived, worked for, and loved for a lifetime.

My mother is resilient. She is vigilant. She is American.

And each time she walks through the airport doors, smiling and free, I understand how much strength it takes to come home 鈥� and how much gratitude fills that moment when she does.