That call really did come. Not a threat, not revenge, and not a secret, as my family might have expected, but a cold, official voice that makes adults’ knees shake more than children’s do from fear.

They were asked to urgently return to the airport and explain why a minor child was without documents, money, and supervision in the transit zone.

The man I went with turned out to be a translator and volunteer who worked with local services and consulates.

He hadn’t noticed me by chance: such children always sit the same way — too quiet, too straight, too alone. He knew that the right words and the right people in the right places are more frightening than any revenge.

My brother later said it had been a “stupid joke.” My parents cried and made excuses. But jokes end where responsibility begins, and that was exactly what they were forced to understand in a single night.

I was returned to my family, the documents were sorted out, and I was put on the next flight. Nothing bad happened to me after that — but it could have.