Advertisement
I’m Margaret. I’m 73, and I need to tell you about the day grief gave me a second chance at motherhood. Eighteen years ago, I was on a flight back to my city… to bury my daughter. She’d died in a car accident along with my precious grandson, and I felt like someone had hollowed out my chest.
I was on a flight back to my city… to bury my daughter.
I barely registered the chaos happening three rows ahead until the crying became impossible to ignore.
Two infants were sitting in the aisle seats, completely alone. A boy and a girl, maybe six months old, their faces red from crying and their tiny hands shaking.
Advertisement
The things people said made me want to scream.
“Can’t someone just shut those kids up?” a woman in a business suit hissed to her companion.
“They’re disgusting,” a man muttered as he squeezed past them to get to the bathroom.
Flight attendants kept walking by with these tight, helpless smiles. Every time someone approached, the infants would flinch.
The things people said
made me want to
scream.
The young woman sitting next to me touched my arm gently.
