My suitcase is far too plump but it closes and the zipper is strong. Some travelers manage a long trip with two t-shirts, three pieces of underwear, and a toothbrush. That’s not me in the slightest. My packing is about squishing in as much as possible. Odd, the bag seems smaller than the last time I used it. I cram things into my backpack, too, and hoof it to the subway stop, sweat-drenched. In my rush, I forget to wear deodorant. Ok, this traveler will stink as she heads to Europe to see family and friends and spend a week at a writer’s retreat.

It’s unhip, but when flying, I check my bag. Maybe I just like the emotional rollercoaster at the luggage carousel. First anticipation, then joy as my bag lumbers toward me. "Hi buddy, great to see you. Wow, you feel chunky. Ok, off we go."

It is Sunday at a small airport in southwest France. At the baggage carousel, the small crowd of passengers tugs their bags off the squeaky belt. Just a stray suitcase cover is making rounds. A text arrives on my phone: “Unfortunately, 1 piece(s) of your baggage could not be loaded on schedule. Please provide us online with a delivery address.” Curses in real and imagined languages escape my lips. My backpack has my computer, video and audio gear, a book on writing I planned to work through. No clothes, no toothbrush.

If my mother were with me, her comforting smile would sooth me. "We will figure this out," she might have said. What I know about her comes from fuzzy memories, photos, and a blend of family tales. I was six years old when she passed, my father never explicitly said she did. I remember she was tired a lot. One day she was gone. I kept setting the table for her. Not sure when I stopped doing that. The au pair became my step-mother. Next, came a move to a new country, where I retreated into schoolwork, reading, and music. At the dinner table, my stepmother relished spewing nastiness about me. Head down, I raced through my food, cleaned the pots and pans, and scurried to my room. During the day I held it together. At night I cried into my pillow.

Repeatedly, I packed a bag to run away. It fit on my bike—later, on my motorbike. Back then, I packed light. But my pre-teen self hadn’t mastered travel-planning so I returned late at night or the next day. During school holidays, I was sent to relatives or youth summer camp. Packing for those trips was freeing.

Now, at the baggage claim in France, tears well up. I so want to be at that writer’s retreat. I call the airline, but they have no advice. My angry words for them compete with angry words spoken nearby. A man is giving a teenager an earful. "How could you be so stupid?" he asks the teenager, likely his son. "You never pay attention."

The teenager and I had been on the same plane. He had left his backpack under the seat and his phone is in the bag. School is about to start after the summer holidays. In France, just like anywhere, school sucks without a phone. His feeling about being sans portable likely top my frustration. At least my backpack holds my gear and phone.

I think about my grandmother and her black suitcase. It’s not much bigger than my backpack. Its thin, black cloth stretches over a pliable plastic frame. It has a zipper and a plastic handle. She fled Nazi Germany with it. Her parents hadn’t felt strong enough to leave with her. I imagine her heart broke as she packed. She left and never saw them again. Long after her journey via Portugal to the U.S., she gave me the bag and I cherish it.

I linger at an empty airport counter. A staffer finally comes by and has me start with online forms to document a lost bag. He leaves and I finger the greasy on-screen keyboard with mounting frustration. The dad keeps berating his son. Then, a door on the far wall of the small baggage hall opens and an airport staffer comes out holding a backpack. He passes it to a colleague who gives it to the dad. The cleaning crew had found the teenager’s backpack. The teenager cracks a smile. As the two of them walk out, the dad continues his angry grumble. But I am happy for them. I finish the online form and the staffer recommends to travel onward and to keep calling the airline.

My suitcase is my tiny house on wheels with some favorite clothes. Now, I only have the sweaty clothes I am wearing. Angry tears well up. I try to channel moving day when the truck leaves with all your possessions on board. You worry but also feel light and airy. I wipe my tears, set out to find a toothbrush and a t-shirt or two in small-town France on a Sunday. The next day, before heading to the retreat, I buy some clothes and toiletries. Daily, I inquire about my bag. Daily, I post on social media about one object in my suitcase that I am missing. Trolls ping me. They impersonate the airline, offer help. Block, block, go away, I just want my bag back.

Twenty-six days after my return, at 3 a.m., the airline delivers the bag. Once upstairs, I tear into the unpacking. Such joy to see my stuff. My travel companion’s handle is thick with luggage tags. The bag had been to France, Germany, and Iceland. I wonder what stories it can share about its journey. It is 4 a.m. My mother might have said, "Finish unpacking, then let’s have a cup of tea and imagine the two bags talking about their suitcase adventures." Then again, she might have said nothing of the kind.

Vivien Marx is a journalist with roots in the U.S., Canada, and Europe. She writes, mainly about science and tech, does podcasts and the occasional video. She loves to travel and confesses to being a terrible suitcase packer.