eating.
“I changed my mind.”
Then she added,
“I want to leave March fourteenth. Flight 212. The morning flight.”
That stopped me.
“That’s extremely specific.”
“Yes,” she said.
It was.
That evening, I searched for the flight.
Flight 212 still existed.
Boston to San Francisco.
Morning departure.
Different aircraft, but the same number and the same route.
I didn’t question her.
I simply started saving.
And when the time finally came, I booked her first class.
Seat 3A.
I wanted her to have everything.
Space.
Comfort.
A real meal.
A seat that reclined almost flat.
She was turning eighty and facing something she had avoided for twenty-seven years.
I wanted the experience to feel special.
Then I booked myself into 3B beside her.
The total made my stomach hurt.
I put it on my credit card anyway.
And now, at the gate, she had traded that expensive seat for 34A
