I wish I had told him exactly what I thought.
Instead, I looked down at my daughter.
Sophie’s face was red from crying.
Her tiny fingers curled around my shirt.
And suddenly all I could think was:
I brought her here.
I had dragged her through an airport in the middle of the night because I couldn’t afford a better flight.
I had spent money we didn’t have.
I had chosen a family obligation over her comfort.
Maybe everyone was right.
Maybe I was selfish.
Maybe I was a terrible mother.
My vision blurred.
And then the stranger sitting beside me spoke.
“She’s doing the best she can.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
That was what made everyone hear it.
The businessman turned.
The flight attendant straightened.
Even Sophie seemed startled enough to pause for half a second.
I finally looked properly at the man beside me.
He appeared to be somewhere in his mid-thirties.
Broad shoulders filled a black sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent. His dark hair was cut short, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and an expensive steel watch rested against one wrist.
But the watch wasn’t what I noticed.
It was his hands.
One knuckle carried a pale scar.
Another disappeared beneath dark ink winding beneath his sleeve.
He looked elegant without looking polished.
Dangerous without trying to look dangerous.
The businessman across the aisle scoffed.
“This doesn’t concern you.”
The stranger looked at him.
Just looked.
The businessman stopped talking.
I noticed that.
So did the flight attendant.
The stranger turned toward me.
“Does she usually take a bottle when her ears hurt?”
I nodded cautiously.
“She won’t take it.”
“Diaper bag?”
I hesitated.
He held out his hand.
“Give me the bag. Not the baby.”
For some reason, that almost made me laugh.
I passed it to him.
He opened the front pocket without digging through anything personal, found Sophie’s bottle, checked the cap, then looked upward.
“The vent’s closed.”
He adjusted the air nozzle above us until cool air flowed over Sophie’s flushed forehead.
Then he handed me the bottle.
“Sit her more upright.”
I did.
“Now try.”
Sophie protested for another thirty seconds.
Then she latched onto the bottle.
The change was so fast I almost cried.
Her screams softened.
Then became whimpers.
Then little exhausted hiccups.
Finally, silence.
The entire cabin seemed to exhale.
I looked at the stranger.
“Thank you.”
He nodded once.
The flight attendant walked away.
The older businessman opened his newspaper again.
I whispered, “You have kids?”
Something changed in the stranger’s eyes.
Not much.
Just enough.
“No.”
“Oh.”
He looked toward Sophie.
“I had a younger sister.”
The way he said had stopped me from asking another question.
Minutes passed.
The lights were dimmed.
Sophie fell asleep against me.
My arms began trembling.
The stranger noticed.
“You’re exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Too much coffee.”
“You fell asleep twice while talking to me.”
“I did not.”
His eyebrow lifted.
That was the last thing I remembered.
When I woke up, my cheek was pressed against the stranger’s shoulder.
For one humiliating second, I had no idea where I was.
Then I remembered.
The plane.
Chicago.
