This weekend was supposed to be different. A three-day weekend. I’ve been meaning to focus on some personal projects I want to get off the ground (again). We were planning for some much needed time away and meeting some of our favorite friends.
Plus, Liverpool is playing Bayern Munich and Manchester United in the week to come. Two fun and potentially season-defining matches.
We get up early most days and the weekends are no different. We do our best to sneak in an hour or two of reading before the day kicks in.
Two words that I never want to hear or read or see from my family.
The call wasn’t a good one.
24 hours later and I’m on a plane to meet with family and friends and a community that is so unbelievably kind.
I’m on the second leg of a two-leg flight. I know what’s in front of me. I’ve seen some of the pictures and videos, and read the news. Yet I have no idea what’s in front of me. Mom and dad have both impressed as much.
I land in San Diego in 23 minutes. Then take dad out for lunch. Then we make the longer-and-quieter than usual 45-minute drive east.
It’s two hours before experiencing possibly the worst 24 hours of my life.