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The night before you left, we ate together one last time, and I tried really hard not to cry into my dinner.
I was angry that we are not the kind of family that cries when people leave. But then I started to really listen to the conversation at the table:

"LA is really big. It'll take you an hour and a half to two hours to drive from one end to the other."
"Make sure you ask if you can check in another luggage."

"Eat more, son."
"Did you pack enough underwear?"

It was our way of saying, "You are loved. And we are going to miss you beyond imagination."