“I saw a picture,” he said, his voice shaking a bit, “You and Savvy in Hawaii? I’ll be in Brooklyn, playing against my old team. You remember Brooklyn, right, Claudia?” he pauses as if I need time to comprehend what he’s saying, like I need a moment to remember that’s where she was conceived. “I want to meet her. I’ll pay for your flight and hotel, but nothing else. Don’t expect anything else.”
Savvy…
Him calling her that made my stomach turn. Like he had the right, like he knows her. He hasn’t once reached out, not a single check-in, not even a damn text since that awful call. And I didn’t want him to. I didn’t need him. We agreed. I would raise her; she would never be his burden. She ismyblessing, and I would tell the world I chose a donor.
So why now?
I didn’t ask. I hung up instead, walked to my sleeping daughter and pressed my lips to her soft head, inhaling her scent, and I didn’t tremble, I felt stronger now than ever.
Now I’m boarding this plane, clutching my promise to her tighter than my bags: she will see the world. Not just bedrooms that aren’t hers. Not offices where someone decides her fate. She will see beauty. Joy. Places like Hawaii, where the ocean sings her to sleep.
I reach my row, juggling everything, whispering a rushed “sorry” as my hip clips the armrest. The woman in the middleseat looks up from her phone. Her braid is long and dark, her eyes quick and warm.
She smiles at Savannah first, not me. “Looks like I got the good seatmate,” she says, voice lilting with music I can’t place.
Something loosens in my chest. My lips twitch upward before I can stop them.
Savannah coos as if she agrees.
At three months old, I swear she’s a genius, thanks to her genetics.
Savannah coos, burrowing into my shirt, and the sound is a balm—a low, bubbling giggle that makes the woman in the middle seat reach instinctively for her, fingers fluttering like she’s about to tickle my daughter’s toes but then pulling back, respectful.
“How old?” she asks,
I answer before I think, to be cagey like I usually would be. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the remnants of salt air clinging to us both, but my defenses are softer than normal with her.
“Three and a half months,” I say, which is no time at all.
The woman, who looks younger than me, her face lights up like she’s genuinely delighted, “She’s such a pretty baby. You look just like your mommy.”
The way she says it, feels like it’s a badge of honor, makes me feel a pulse of pride.
“I’m Nalani,” she smiles and lifts her shoulder.
“Claudia.”
“Well, Claudia,” she says and shifts her eyes to her left, where a man is taking up his seat and the entire shared armrest, and has already put on a sleep mask. “It’s going to be a long flight. If you need anything,” She pulls up her sleeve and looks at the spot where a watch might rest. “I’m free for the next several hours.” She glances at the guy again, “basically caged.”
Smiling, I look at my daughter who yawns, “Well, we share, don’t we?”
I can read people for the most part, and the way she looks at Savannah and me, and not beyond us, seeking what they automatically decide is a missing piece to the puzzle that is our little family of two, makes me like her. Nalani, the stunning, dark-haired woman, looks at us like we are enough. Not that it’s needed, but God, how it’s appreciated. She doesn’t see a cautionary tale, not a broken family, not even an oddity. Just mother and daughter on an adventure, worthy of a smile. I let myself exhale.
The engines roar, and we surge down the runway. I clutch Savannah close, waiting for her ears to pop. I close my eyes and imagine telling Savannah years from now about her first flight—the thrill of takeoff, a stranger’s kindness, her mother’s arms wrapped around her like an unbreakable fortress, and me, the nervous flyer, before becoming a mother, is no longer.
As the plane tilts skyward, my thoughts pitch forward to Brooklyn and the echo of Kyle’s voice on the phone. I know what’s waiting for us, and it won’t be easy. Still, for this stretch of sky, I remind myself that everything is going to be just fine.
An hour later, I’m handing over my baby so I can use the bathroom, which she offered to do so. I don’t know what made me trust her — instinct, maybe, or exhaustion — but when I come back, she’s holding Savannah like she’s done it a thousand times.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She smiles down at Savannah. “Go ahead and sleep a bit. I’ve got her.”
I almost protest, but the hum of the engines, the weight of the last few days, the ache of everything I’m flying toward, the fact that there’s no place for her to go, we’re on a plane.
It’s been a couple of weeks since anyone else has held her, and I know I need to accept her kindness because I may be fine now, but if it all catches up with me and I’m exhausted, I will not be at my best, and I need to be.
She points to the sling, “I could wear that if it makes her and you more comfortable. I might need some instruction.”
