Eleven-fifteen. They were supposed to depart at eleven-fifteen. Three fucking hours and forty-seven minutes ago.

It was officially impossible, Kurt had learned during those long, wretched ticks of the clock, to keep a four year old entertained for three hours and forty-seven minutes in an airport concourse.

“Elly, baby, please…please be a big boy for Daddy,” Kurt pleaded, keeping his voice close to the sobbing mess of his son curled in his lap.

“No!” Elliot wailed, burying his face in Kurt’s denim-clad thigh, long since soaked with snot and tears. “I wanna see Grampa!”

Kurt balled both of his hands into fists; his blunt fingernails bit his palms, relieving a tiny fragment of tension. He glanced past a sea of scowling faces to check the clock for, easily, the hundredth time that day, hoping the numbers had miraculously inched forward without his realization.

3:03 p.m.

Three hours and forty-eight minutes.

Fuck my life.

Kurt had done everything right. He’d roused Elliot from sleep at five-thirty, his own head already clear from the morning’s first cup of coffee. He’d hauled his son and their bags – all four of them – downstairs to a waiting cab: a pricey splurge for Kurt, who always restricted their travel to the subway to save precious pennies. One hour and fifty-four minutes later, they were checked in, through the nightmare of airport security, and at the gate, ready and eager for their first visit home to Ohio since moving to New York five months prior.

It wasn’t long after that when the nightmare began.

Delayed.

The words were written in red and bold, but Kurt had still refused to believe them when they flashed across the flight status monitor.

Estimated departure: 2:00 p.m.

It’ll be okay, Kurt had assured himself, even as he heaved a heavy sigh. Just a delay. He shot off a text to his father, who was scheduled to meet them at the airport in Columbus at one-thirty.

Kurt Hummel: Flight delayed. Getting in at 4 now.

His father never had much to say in text messages; his replies were always a short, simple “ok,” “too bad,” “bye,” or once, “damn.” Kurt had, in the past, surreptitiously watched his father try to type out messages with his thick, work-worn fingertips while he muttered how people should just pick up the damn phone and call him before grunting in defeat.

Dad: Ok

Elliot had behaved wonderfully for two hours – maybe even two and a half, if Kurt didn’t count his first small outburst when a little girl about his age plopped down in the seat across from them holding a bag of McDonald’s french fries.

In the midst of their fifth round of Go Fish – Elliot squealing “Gooooo fish, Daddy!” at each and every turn – Kurt heard a collective groan rise up from the waiting passengers around him. And he knew. He knew. When he snapped his head up to read the monitor once again, his heart sank.

Estimated departure: 4:00 p.m.

Kurt Hummel: Delayed again. Getting in at 6. Sorry.

Dad: Yikes

After the ninth round of cards – the seventh and eighth rounds having been a slow, trying descent toward tantrum, with Elliot refusing Kurt’s help to match up pairs and throwing his cards to the floor when he started to lose – Kurt had finally, finally managed to coerce his son to nap. The small boy had swaddled himself in his favorite blanket and snuggled into the rock-hard, unyielding plastic chairs, smooshing his cheek against Kurt’s thigh as a pillow. Kurt cupped his hand around Elliot’s exposed ear, trying to muffle the loud interruptions of announcements over the speakers.

But somehow, the tinny, piercing ring of French Fry Girl’s mother’s cell phone had penetrated the barrier. Kurt pressed his palm closer, but it was no use – he could already feel Elliot stirring beneath his hand.

“Where’s Grampa?” Elliot whined. A burst of panic flared in Kurt’s chest; he knew his son’s breaking point, and the shrill sound of his voice warned Kurt he was dangerously close.

“We’re still in New York, Elly,” Kurt explained calmly, even as he glared at the oblivious woman chattering noisily into her phone. Would it be too cruel to corral that entire family and throw them off the face of the earth? “It won’t be much longer now, and then we’ll see Grandpa and Nana.”

“Don’t call me Elly!” Elliot screeched indignantly.

“Elliot…”

“I want. Grampa!” And with that, Elliot dissolved into a full-out tantrum. His wails sliced through the buzz of conversation around them, carrying to the farthest reaches of the waiting area.  French Fry Girl’s mother deliberately paused her jabber to shoot Elliot, then Kurt, an annoyed look before continuing to natter away.

There was nothing Kurt could do. Nowhere he could go. His mind was bereft of any solution; he was floating, helpless and alone. As Elliot bawled into his thigh, all Kurt could do was let his eyelids slide shut and his thoughts ferry him away from his reality for one brief moment. His chest rose with slow, calm breaths as he focused on a faded, glimmering light of hope in the deep, dark distance – the one far away from where he sat, the one that was home.

“Gee, where’s your wife when you need her, huh?”

At first, Kurt wasn’t sure if the woman seated behind them was addressing him or somebody else. But when he glanced back in her direction, he found her watching him with soft brown eyes warmed with compassion.

A year ago, even, Kurt would have flashed the woman his bitchiest scowl. “I don’t have a wife,” he would have snapped, letting her taken-aback reaction momentarily fill the hole that despair had carved in his soul. But parenting – the nighttime feedings, the potty-training, the ‘I love you’s and the meltdowns in grocery stores and subway cars and airports – had allowed patience and respect to blossom in his soul, their foliage shading the snarky cynicism of his earlier age.

So instead he simply replied, “It’s just me,” and hoped his smile didn’t look too weary and warmed-over.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she cooed over Elliot's cries. Kurt instantly felt the comforting warmth of Midwestern kindness emanating from her empathetic smile. “I feel you, dear. I raised four of my own. And you look like you’re just a baby yourself.”

Kurt offered her another tight, polite smile. “Thank you,” was all he could think to say.

That’s when the unmistakable words of the woman behind the flight counter invaded Kurt’s consciousness. “I really don’t think this flight is going to end up leaving tonight. They think they can fix it, but I’m just not sure…”

In an instant, Kurt was out of his seat, hoisting all thirty-six pounds of Elliot’s sniveling dead weight in his arms and scooting to the counter before the other waiting passengers could react.

“How can you get me to Columbus tonight?” he asked the woman, rather desperately, in lieu of a greeting.

The woman frowned down at her computer screen. “Our only other flight to Columbus today is at seven, but it’s completely booked,” she said in a thick Spanish accent.

Kurt just blinked at her as he waited for more – for some kind of solution that, surely, she must be able to offer.

“I am rescheduling people out of Newark now,” she continued. “I can put you on standby for the six-forty five…”

She was still talking, but Kurt wasn’t listening anymore. He was stuck on one word. “Newark?”

“Yes, sir,” she affirmed.

“You’re rescheduling people out of Newark.” Kurt had to repeat the words, the statement, the fact, to make it penetrate through the hazy fog of fatigue and disbelief that had suddenly wrapped around his brain.

She bobbed her head slightly; the glare from the harsh overhead fluorescents bounced off her slicked-back, jet-black hair. “Yes.”

“You mean to tell me there are no other flights to Columbus out of JFK tonight?” His own voice sounded flat and dead in his ears.

“No. I’m sorry, sir.”

Immediately, Kurt felt it: the first prickle of tears stinging his eyes and nose. Don’t cry. Do. Not. Cry. He dropped Elliot to the ground; the sniffling child immediately fell to his knees, too exhausted to stand.

“There’s nothing else you can do for me?” And it was too much – Kurt’s voice climbed higher and higher, then broke, and his eyes welled. The woman behind the counter cleared her throat as her dark eyes darted awkwardly between Kurt’s face and her computer. Her expression wavered expertly between sympathy and apathy – the look all airline employees seemed to have perfected for moments like this, for people like Kurt, who was tired and overworked and lonely and I just really, really want my dad.

Kurt’s hands quickly came up to cover his face as the first hot tears seeped from his eyes. His shaky inhale was loud and stuffy; the sound annoyed him to the point that it sent more tears trickling down.

He knew he had to stop. He knew people were watching. But he couldn’t. The tears spilled out faster, flowing in rivulets over his burning cheeks.

“Would you excuse us, please?” Kurt heard a soft, feminine voice just before he felt an unfamiliar hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him away from the counter. When he yanked his hands away from his face, he was greeted by the sight of the older woman who’d talked to him while Elliot was crying. Her expression was still open and caring, mother-like, though now her warmth was painted with a cool streak of concern.

“You look like you really need to get home, dear,” she said.

“I do,” was all Kurt could croak out.

She twisted to look back at her waiting husband, still seated in the row of plastic chairs where Kurt had abandoned his and Elliot’s carry-ons in his haste to get to the counter. Kurt watched through misty eyes as he nodded once in her direction, and she returned the gesture. “Okay,” the woman said to Kurt as she turned back to face him. “My husband just got the last two seats on a five-fifteen to Dayton. We’re happy to give you our seats so you can get home, if you can get someone to pick you up there instead of Columbus.”

“Oh – no, no.” The refusal poured out of Kurt’s mouth before she could even finish. Embarrassment and exhaustion piled themselves high, rebuilding the walls he’d slowly shed since high school. The instinctual reaction to deny the help of others – it was still there inside him, like a living, breathing monster that fed on any insecurities that crossed its path. Kurt shook his head wildly. “I can’t do that. It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

“Honey,” she said firmly, though not unkindly. “I just figured it out for you. Sometimes the solution is to take the good things that come to you.” She gave him a pointed look: one of wisdom and experience, far beyond the few years Kurt had accumulated. At once, he lacked the energy, or the gall, to argue. A deep, heaving sigh of defeat – of acceptance – escaped his lips.

“Oh, you sweet thing, you’re exhausted, aren’t you?” The woman was smiling down at Elliot now; the boy had wrapped himself around Kurt’s leg as it was a lifeline. She looked back up at Kurt, still smiling, and he couldn’t help how the corners of his mouth quirked upward with appreciation. “Come on,” she said, reaching out to pat Kurt’s shoulder. “Let’s go get these tickets straightened out so you can go see your grandpa.”

“Grampa,” Elliot whimpered pathetically as Kurt once again gathered him up in his arms. His cheek immediately dropped to Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt snuggled his own, damp and sticky, against Elliot’s soft brown hair and obediently followed the woman back to the counter.

Kurt Hummel: Any chance you can pick us up at Dayton instead? Had to rebook. But we’re on our way now.

Kurt wondered, idly, as they boarded their five-fifteen flight to Dayton, if the woman at the airport would have been so benevolent if she knew his story. If she knew him: single gay dad, trying to give a little boy love that the world didn’t often refuel him with.

He instantly pushed the thought from his mind, deciding to simply remember her extreme act of generosity instead of piling on stereotypes he’d never know if she believed.

As the flight attendants prepared the doors for takeoff and Kurt reached into his bag to power off his phone, he saw the texts from his father: two of them, sent four minutes apart. He never deleted those messages – quickly buried under a pile of texts from babysitters and co-workers and Finn and Rachel, but always present on Kurt’s phone and in his heart.

Dad: Anywhere for my boys
Can’t wait to see you