Without taking off her headphones, the woman reached for the armrest between them and planted her elbow on it, leaving Lily pressed against the window.
My daughter quietly folded her hands in her lap.
“My mom taught me never to embarrass people.”
She never complained.
I closed my eyes. ‘Just get through the flight,’ I told myself. ‘Just breathe.’
The engines roared. The plane climbed. Ten minutes later, the seatbelt sign clicked off with a soft chime.
I kept my eyes on Lily while Noah slept quietly against my chest.
She kept glancing between the woman’s seat and the coat on the floor, her expression growing more thoughtful.
It wasn’t fear. It looked like she was trying to remember something.
“Why are you sitting on my mom’s wedding ring?”
Then Lily’s voice cut through the hum.
“Ma’am,” she said, and I could tell she was standing. “My mom taught me never to embarrass people in public. That’s why I tried to tell you quietly.”
