I shift my son from my left hip to my right, and he whines and squirms for escape. The diaper bag over my shoulder slips to my elbow and I stop to reposition it.

My husband stops beside me, reaching for the bag, his wheeled bag toppling.

“You got it?”

I nod but hand him the diaper bag, again repositioning the eight-month-old rock squirming in my arms.

My son smiles and reaches for his daddy, but I pull him close to me. We walk. Up the escalator and we’ll be there, here, done, finished, back again, finally returned.