I had spent months preparing my daughter for her first flight, right down to the seat that would help her feel safe. When that small piece of security was taken from us, I thought I had no choice but to walk away.
The night before the trip, I sat cross-legged on my daughter Emma’s bedroom floor, zipping up a small suitcase covered in cloud stickers she’d picked out herself. Two years had passed since her father, Sean, died.
This was the first time I’d let myself plan something that wasn’t a doctor’s appointment or a therapy session.
We were going to have four days at the beach. That was all. But it felt like climbing a mountain.
Two years had passed.
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.
