Actually, I don't fear travel so much as I fear what happens after the traveling is done.
Colin died shortly after arriving home from a several-weeks-long business trip, and it sticks in my mind. He'd been gone for two weeks, only coming home on the weekends.
I was gone for a week on a business trip several months ago, and despite being thoroughly distracted with the business, I worried about my husband. I worried that I'd come home to find him dead in a big, puddly mess.
I'm preparing to go on another trip next week (thankfully for just three days), but I'm facing that same anxiety.
I know the situations are not the same at all; I know that I have no reason to worry about this. I get that it's illogical. I understand that it's just nervous, unfounded, ridiculous fear on my part.
But it sits inside me, like a growth on my heart: a small, sharp, constant fear.
Sometimes, much as I love Colin, I really hate him too.
It's a funny sort of thing.