Cornershot

My dad and stepmom spent the night at our house in Roanoke recently so they could catch an early-morning flight to Seattle, where they would board a cruise ship to Alaska.

We set an alarm clock in the guest room for 2:30 a.m., then set the alarm on my stepmother’s cellphone as a back up . Then, because my husband suggested it and I knew he was right, I set my own alarm to make good and sure they got up on time.

That’s how I found myself half awake at 2:45 a.m. on a Sunday morning, helping my father through a brief, frantic wallet search and quizzing them: “Did you pack your toothbrush? Do you have your medicine? Do you have your flight information?”

I fetched Dad a bottled water, made sure they had enough granola bars and asked if they wanted to borrow my travel pillow. Then I helped carry their bags out to the station wagon, hugged them and watched the tail lights of their Subaru head off into the darkness.

Lying in bed afterward, I found it impossible to fall asleep. I prayed their flights would be safe and on time, that they hadn’t forgotten anything important, and that they’d feel well during the cruise.

An hour later, as I still tossed and turned, it struck me: So this is what it feels like to be up in the wee hours — not partying, but worrying.

Turnabout, as they say, is fair play.

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