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.
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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.
