You're waiting in baggage claim when you see him.
He's grinning, that same grin he's had since he was a baby, the one he'd never hesitated to use to his advantage whenever he got himself into some kind of trouble—which was often.
He has a bag slung over his shoulder and another in his hand as he walks toward you, though he hasn't noticed you yet. He turns his head, murmuring something into his wife's ear. She smiles. You always liked her.
They're in better view now. You can finally see the little person resting—no, he's actually squirming, you realize—in his mother's arms. You notice he's even more beautiful in person. You've only seen him in the pictures his parents email you from time to time.
He looks like his father, even from a distance, though you can already tell he shares some features with his mother. He's babbling away to her now—nonsensically, you expect, as the little guy is merely six months old. She kisses his cheek. That's when she sees you.
She smiles—genuinely, brilliantly—at you. You see her nudge her husband, whom you now realize looks just slightly groggy, and motions toward you. The remaining distance is erased, and you feel yourself pulled into a strong embrace by your son as his arms close around you.
"Hey, Mom."
He's thirty-nine years old, but that one hug confesses to how much he truly missed you. How much he sometimes misses home, where he grew up. How this city is still a part of him, no matter how long he stays away.
"Tony," you hear yourself say into his shoulder. "Honey, it's so good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too."
He lets you go and moves to greet your husband as you turn to his wife. "Michelle..."
She returns your hug with the arm that isn't holding her son. "Mm, how are you?" She's positively glowing, happier than you've ever seen her before.
"Wonderful." You mean to tell her you missed her, that she's as beautiful as ever, that it's been too long. (You have a lot of things you'd like to tell her—even thank her for, actually—once you get a chance.) But your attention is instantly redirected to the little pair of eyes watching you.
Your little boy's little boy. He has a head full of dark curls, courtesy of both his parents. He has his mother's eyes, her pouty lips. His skin is tan, like his father's. Lighter than your own. His nose... You know that tiny nose. His father had it at that age, you recall.
When he grins he's all Tony.
"Oh, Michelle, he's precious."
"Thank you." Her eyes crease at the corners as she gazes proudly at her baby boy. "Who's that, Anthony?" She talks to him in a soft, high voice. It doesn't suit her at all, but it's endearing. "Is that Grandma?"
You feel moisture form in your eyes, threatening to spill over. That title has never been yours, and only a few years ago you'd practically accepted that it never would be. You tickle Anthony's little chin gently with your index finger. "Hello, sweetheart."
You feel your heart melt at the sound of his giggles but still manage to ask, "How was he on the flight?"
Tony pulls himself away from whatever conversation he's having with his father—probably related to the Cubs and the game you all have tickets for tomorrow, naturally—and answers. "He actually wasn't too bad. Slept through most of it." He offers to take the little one. "I got him, Michelle."
She relents. Your grandson's little fingers are clutching Tony's sweatshirt now. You can't stop staring at the picture they make, and you realize you've never been more proud of your son in his life. Not when he joined the Marines. Not when he graduated from Stanford. Not when he started working for the government or left it all to start up his own business. You've never not been proud of him—you know that even when he went to prison, it was for the right reasons—but seeing him now, with his own family, you have an entirely new sort of fondness for him.
You hear your husband ask if they're hungry, if there's anywhere in particular they want to go. They're tired and would rather just go home. You and your husband take their luggage despite your daughter-in-law's protests not to worry about it.
You see Tony subtly reach for Michelle's hand as the five of you step out into the cool night air, and just watching them, the way he looks at her, you're convinced the days of worrying about your son's marriage are far behind you. He adores his wife. It's clear to anyone who sees them together that he worships the ground she walks on.