Before I could change my mind, I clicked “select flight.”
The next screen asked for passenger information. I typed in my name, my birth date, my information. Just mine. A party of one.
There was something powerful about seeing my name on that booking form all by itself. Isabella Fosters. Not Hudson’s wife. Not Vivien’s daughter-in-law. Just me.
I entered our credit card information and clicked “book now” before I could think too hard about what I was doing.
The confirmation email arrived immediately. Flight 442 to Maui, departing 4:15 a.m., gate B12. Check-in recommended two hours prior, which meant I needed to leave for the airport at 1:30 a.m.
In ten hours, I should be pulling the first turkey out of the oven. Instead, I’d be somewhere over the Pacific Ocean watching the sun rise from thirty thousand feet.
The realization of what I’d just done hit me like a physical force. I was actually going to do this. I was going to disappear on Thanksgiving morning and let them figure out their own dinner.
Na
USA