The customs officer at London Heathrow airport had short blonde hair. He was wearing a navy uniform with patches on the shoulders, but I can’t remember what they said. Probably something along the lines of “UK Border” with the word “Royal” squeezed in somewhere. I had just spent the night on a flight from Montreal to London with my seven-year-old and husband. My 7yo was feeling great thanks to his hours-long nap on the plane. He refuted this fact of course. As his dad and I stood in line, lifeless and grey, the 7yo kept repeating that he hadn’t slept at all. He’d only “pretended to sleep.” My husband and I often wonder if our little prodigy should take up acting. His pretend nap was quite convincing, especially with his perfectly-timed body spasms. I’m pretty sure an Oscar is in our family’s future.
We approached the officer’s booth, suitcases in tow. I stretched out my hand with our three passports and I gave them to him. “Hi,” I said, with a respectful we-don’t-have-drugs-or-illegal-substances-on-us look. A thin veil of nausea rose inside me. Was it my sleepless night? The stress of standing before an authority figure? The officer flicked through our passports in silence.
A puzzled expression appeared on his face. Something was wrong.
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