ADIRA

“Are you absolutely sure you want to spend your vacation in Greece?” my mother asked, her brow furrowed in concentration as she took her time, folding one of my blouses and placing it into the open suitcase.

“Yes, Mama.” I replied without looking up, focusing on carefully tucking a bag of my absolute favorite snack—Flamin’ Hot Lays—into my carry-on. “Mykonos is quiet. Peaceful. And after the stress I’ve faced with Baba for the last two years, peace is what I need right now.”

My headache made an unwelcome appearance at the mere thought of last night’s argument with my father. Eight years shadowing him, two years as COO, and yet he acted like taking a vacation was a betrayal. My father treated ambition like a battlefield, and I was his faithful soldier, expected to march without rest.

Mama sighed, pulling me out of my thoughts, “I just think Greece is too far away. Why not go to Canada instead? I looked it up, and there’s a fantastic gyros spot in Toronto.”

“Gyros?” I asked, trying to hold back my laughter. “Mama, the gyros in Mykonos will blow Canada’s out of the water. Trust me.”

She ignored my comment, turning her worried gaze to the bag of Lays in my hands. “Do you really need to take those?” she asked. “You’ll ruin your stomach, agapoula.”

I smirked. “It’s just a little spice Mama. I need it to keep up my tan you know.” I slipped the bag into my carry-on triumphantly, ignoring the look she gave me at that statement.

I mean, where’s the lie?

She shook her head at me, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “Just be careful Adira.  Don’t want you getting hurt—or winding up with food poisoning because of those chips.”

I held back a groan, placing my carry-on beside the bed. She meant well, but her logic at times was maddening. I knew she wasn’t that concerned about the chips but more so of me leaving as she always has. For the past five years.

“Mama,” I said, turning to look at her. I took a while to study my mother. We looked nothing alike except for the delicate facial features I got from her. With soft brown hair that framed her angelic face and green eyes that are currently shimmering with worry, my mother’s timeless beauty always managed to disarm me.

Taking her delicate hand in mine, I squeezed it gently for comfort. “You don’t need to worry. I’ve travelled solo for the past five years and I’m still here—alive and well. Halárose, Mama. I’ll be fine.”

(Relax.)

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears and I began to panic.

“Oh no. Please don’t cry,” I pleaded, already bracing myself. “You’re acting like I’ll wind up… I don’t know… dead with a blood-stained note in front of the house.”

Bad move, I thought as her sniffles turned into a sob. I should know by now to keep my morbid thoughts where they belong: in my head, and not out of my mouth.

“Okay, not dead,” I backtracked quickly. “Maybe just… hairless?”

Strike two. Her tears escalated. I seem to have forgotten how much Mama loves my curls.

Deciding to keep shut, I sighed and pulled my mother into a hug. She relaxed slightly in my arms, though her sobs continued for a while before she quieted, lifting her head to meet my wary gaze.

“One day, that mouth of yours will land you in serious trouble,” she warned, dabbing her nose with a silk handkerchief.

I rolled my eyes at that. “Well, it’s the same mouth that’s kept the company in the top Fortune 500 list,” I quipped, earning a playful slap on my arm.

“Ouch!” I protested, feigning pain.

“That’s what you get for not behaving like a proper lady,” she teased, a faint smile breaking through her worry.

As she turned to leave, she paused by the door. “Please, just be careful,” she said softly. “And smile more, dear. You don’t want wrinkles like mine.”

I laughed as she left, shaking my head. If that’s what I’d look like with wrinkles, I had no complaints.

*********************************

The New York airport was abuzz with life, a continuous movement of travelers in and out of the terminals. Beside me stood my father, his formidable frame a symbol of authority. Standing at six feet tall, with arresting coffee brown eyes and a bald head that gleamed under the airport lights, Baba had a presence that demanded respect and as a first-generation African American man that had seen more discrimination in the business world than anyone ought to, he wore his hard-won success like a badge of honor.

“Did you really need to take a commercial flight? The jet was readily available for your use, Adira!” he asked without looking at me, arms crossed in disapproval. Baba’s deed voice carried the authority that had shot him to success all those years ago.

“Yes. Baba.” I said, turning to meet his stern gaze head on. “It’s first class by the way. Hardly a cattle car.”

His silence lingered for a tense moment before he finally relented, nodding tersely.

“Just be safe,” he said, his voice a few decibels softer now. I know my parents cared for me a lot, but at this point, they were beginning to worry me. Was there something I needed to watch out for? Deciding to ignore that thought, I looked at my father fully and for a moment, the unshakeable titan of industry looked vulnerable. Baba was tired.

“I will, Baba.” I promised, my tone milder. “I’ll call you and Mama as soon as I land in Greece.”

His expression melted further at that as he opened his arms wide. “Come here, little warrior.”

The fond nickname softened my resolve. Baba had called me that ever since I threw a rock at a little boy for bullying another kid in kindergarten. I probably shouldn’t have done that, but a head wound wasn’t as bad as the mental trauma the other kid would have to go through. Stepping into his warm embrace, I inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne, engraving it in my senses. Baba didn’t usually do affectionate things like hugging, but when we did, I always cherished it like it was the last time.

“This is the final boarding call for Destination: Athens,” the announcement echoed clearly through the speakers.

“You wouldn’t have to be listening to that or rushing if you’d just taken the jet,” he muttered, always needing the last word. As if I needed more proof as to where I got my sassiness from, I thought amusedly.

Laughing at his annoyance, I stepped back and grabbed my luggage. “Goodbye, Baba,” I said, giving him a playful salute as I headed for the gate.

*********************************************

As I settled into my first-class seat, my ticket weirdly in my hand, I inhaled deeply, letting the drone of the plane’s engines lull me. Our home at Mykonos awaited, and with it, the assurance of tranquility—I hoped. As I leaned back into my seat, I opened the bag of Flamin’ Hot Lays I’d smuggled into my snack carry-on despite Mama’s protests. The first fiery tang of the chip made me smile so wide, I was sure the man next to me thought I was a lunatic or something. I guess some habits, no matter how hedonistic, were worth my rebellion.

As the aircraft lifted off, I popped a few anxiety pills into my mouth. They’d probably make me nauseous for a while, but anything was better than risking a full-on breakout mid-flight. It wasn’t that I had panic attacks regularly on planes—it rarely happened— but better safe than sorry, I guess. As the drugs began to work their way through my system, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to dream. Going to Greece wasn’t just a means of escape for me; it was an opportunity to rediscover myself outside the borders of my family’s heritage. I’d spent my lifetime proving my caliber to Baba, but Mykonos was a needed retreat for me. No boardrooms, no spreadsheets— just the sea, the sun, and the freedom to breathe without the weight of responsibility I’d carried for so long weighing on me. I’ve left that all behind at the gate, and as I finally drifted off to sleep, I whispered a silent prayer: let this journey be the start of something new.

I should have known by now to be more specific with my prayers.