“Hello? I have an Express Mail here for, um, Chloe . . .”
“I’ll be right there!”
Let’s see, am I expecting any other Express Mail packages (even though I’ve received a total of about three in my entire life)? Could this really be THE package? This soon? Does the postmistress of our tiny little post office have any idea how important that envelope is? Shouldn't she be dancing for joy and screaming, “It's here! It's here!”
Yep, Chloe’s passport with the visa affixed to it was there, eight days after our trip to the consulate (which seems like a lifetime ago). This is it. Short of a bloody uprising staged by Basque separatists, there is nothing stopping Chloe from getting off a plane in Madrid on September 3. She may be dragging along her father, clutching her ankle while crying and telling her that she can’t possibly be gone for a whole year, but she’s getting off the damn plane.
I told Steve that the passport was back so this means business and he said he was kind of hoping there might be a delay and that she couldn’t leave for, oh, eleven months or so. I laughed and said, “Well, yeah, but not really.”
“Yeah. Really.”
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