I had spent months preparing my daughter for her first flight, right down to the seat that would help her feel safe. When that small piece of security was taken from us, I thought I had no choice but to walk away.
Advertisement
The night before the trip, I sat cross-legged on my daughter Emma’s bedroom floor, zipping up a small suitcase covered in cloud stickers she’d picked out herself. Two years had passed since her father, Sean, died.
This was the first time I’d let myself plan something that wasn’t a doctor’s appointment or a therapy session.
We were going to have four days at the beach. That was all. But it felt like climbing a mountain.
Two years had passed.
My six-year-old daughter was already asleep, her stuffed airplane tucked under her arm. She’d named it “Buzz” a year ago, and it hadn’t left her side since.
I sat there for a long moment, running my thumb over the little cloud stickers.
“You’ve got this, Tina,” I whispered to myself. “It’s just a flight.”
My phone buzzed.
It was an email from the airline.
“You’ve got this, Tina.”
I skimmed through it.
Advertisement
It said something about an aircraft change for tomorrow’s flight. Passengers were automatically reassigned where necessary.
I checked our boarding passes again. Seat 7A for Emma, seat 7B for me. They were still there. Still locked in.
It was going to be my daughter’s very first flight.
I’d booked that window seat months in advance because Emma needed it due to her autism.
I skimmed through it.
Watching the sky, the sunlight, and the clouds drift by were the things that pulled her back whenever a meltdown started brewing. They somehow helped her stay calm.
“We’re good,” I told myself. “The window seat is still ours.”
***
The following morning at the airport gate, Emma held Buzz against her chest and stared at the huge plane through the glass.
They somehow helped her stay calm.
“Mommy, is that the one?” she asked.
“That’s the one, sweetheart.”
Advertisement
“And I get to see the clouds?”
I crouched down to her level.”You get the window seat! Seven A. It’s waiting for you.”
My daughter smiled that small, careful smile she reserved for very big things, and my chest ached with how much I loved her.
