Chapter 14 - Seat 2AThe first anniversary of Laura's death arrived quietly.
I had expected it to feel like a second funeral.
Instead, it felt ordinary.
That was strange.
Mia had school.
I made pancakes.
Burned one.
She complained.
We argued about whether glitter belonged on a math project.
Laura would've sided with Mia.
Traitor.
At seven-thirty, Mia came downstairs holding the yellow daisy we had dried after the memorial.
She had kept it pressed inside a book.
“Can we take Mommy flying?”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Not her ashes.”
“I gathered.”
“The flower.”
She held it up.
“I want to take it up.”
That afternoon, we went to the aviation foundation.
Aaron met us.
So did three children enrolled in the new family-flight program.
Northstar had funded part of it through the settlement.
I had resisted the idea initially.
Then Catherine made a good argument.
“Money can repair systems even when it can't repair moments.”
So some of the settlement funded counseling for families dealing with bereavement.
Some supported accessible aviation programs for veterans and children.
Some went into Mia's future.
And yes, I took compensation.
James made sure of that.
“Martyrdom,” he told me, “is not financial planning.”
Preston Vale had disappeared from headlines.
Vale Dynamics appointed a new CEO.
Thomas joined the board as an independent director after months of internal conflict.
I had not followed closely.
That was progress.
My life no longer revolved around what Preston Vale was doing.
Northstar's new family seating policy had taken effect nationwide.
The “lower-value traveler” language was gone.
Catherine sent me the final manual.
I read every page.
Of course I did.
Then I sent her seventeen suggested revisions.
She replied with two words:
I regret everything.
Denise Harper now worked full time with an airport passenger-assistance organization.
She sent Mia a birthday card.
Mia sent one back.
Forgiveness had arrived slowly.
Not in one dramatic moment.
I stopped feeling angry every time I saw Denise's name.
Then one day, I realized I hadn't thought about her for a week.
That counted.
Preston was harder.
I didn't hate him anymore.
I wouldn't call us friends.
I wouldn't invite him to dinner.
But the anger no longer owned a room in my house.
That was enough.
Before our anniversary flight, an unexpected package arrived.
No return company logo.
Inside was a small metal model of a C-130.
Underneath was a card.
Colonel Reed,
Thomas told me you are flying again. I hope that is good news.
I have spent the past year learning how often people around me said yes because no felt dangerous. I wish I had learned earlier.
No response necessary.
—Preston Vale
I placed the model on my bookshelf.
Not because he deserved absolution.
Because I no longer needed reminders of him hidden in drawers.
Mia saw it.
“Did the rich man send that?”
“Yes.”
“Is he still rich?”
“I assume so.”
“Is he nicer?”
“I don't know.”
She thought.
“Maybe he's some nicer.”
Some okay.
Some nicer.
Children understood gradients better than adults.
At the airport, Aaron walked toward our aircraft carrying three headsets.
“Big day.”
Mia nodded.
“Mommy's flying.”
She held up the flower.
Aaron touched two fingers to his forehead.
“Good to have you aboard, Laura.”
We climbed in.
This time I sat in the left seat.
I had completed the required medical evaluations, adaptive training, proficiency work, and certification process to act as pilot in command again.
It took months.
Paperwork.
Therapy.
Practice.
Bad landings.
Very bad landings.
One landing Aaron described as “an aggressive negotiation with gravity.”
But I did it.
Mia sat behind me.
Aaron occupied the right seat.
Before starting the engine, I looked toward the empty runway.
One year.
A year since hospital machines stopped.
A year since I brought Mia into Laura's room and told her Mommy wasn't going to wake up.
A year since I discovered grief wasn't one emotion.
It was anger in the morning.
Numbness at lunch.
Laughter followed by guilt.
Loneliness in a crowded store.
Relief when suffering ended.
Then guilt for feeling relieved.
And eventually, unexpectedly, gratitude.
Not for losing Laura.
Never that.
Gratitude that she had existed at all.
I started the engine.
We climbed toward the afternoon sky.
At five thousand feet, Mia asked:
“Can I open the bag?”
She had placed the dried flower inside a clear pouch.
“Go ahead.”
She removed it carefully.
Obviously we weren't opening windows in flight.
So she held the flower against the glass.
Sunlight passed through the faded yellow petals.
“Hi, Mommy.”
Aaron stared forward.
I kept my eyes on the horizon.
Mia continued.
“Daddy doesn't cry in the bathroom as much.”
“Thank you for the operational update,” I said.
Aaron laughed.
“He still burns pancakes.”
“This radio system can be switched off.”
“And he has a lady friend.”
My head snapped halfway around.
“Mia.”
Aaron made a delighted noise.
“What?”
“There is no lady friend.”
“Dr. Sarah.”
“Dr. Sarah is your pediatrician.”
“She had coffee with you.”
“She gave me coffee because the appointment ran late.”
“She smiled.”
“Doctors smile.”
Aaron was shaking with silent laughter.
“I hate both of you.”
Mia grinned.
That was another thing changing.
The possibility of a future.
I wasn't ready to date.
Maybe I would be someday.
Maybe not.
Laura had asked me to live, not replace her.
There was a difference.
We flew over Lake Norman.
Mia talked continuously.
Aaron pretended to navigate badly so she could correct him using the map.
I let them argue.
Eventually we turned toward home.
As the airport came into view, Aaron said:
“Remember Flight 307?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You know what I remember most?”
“The delay?”
“No.”
“My salute.”
I groaned.
“Please don't.”
“I got yelled at for that.”
“Good.”
“Chief pilot said it was unnecessarily theatrical.”
“He was right.”
“I told him it was instinct.”
“It was theatrical instinct.”
Aaron smiled.
“Maybe.”
Then he became serious.
“I wasn't saluting the colonel.”
I glanced at him.
“What?”
“I knew the uniform was gone.”
He looked toward me.
“I was saluting the man who taught us that rank never mattered more than responsibility.”
I didn't know what to say.
Aaron continued.
“That day, you needed someone else to remember it.”
The runway grew larger ahead.
I lowered flaps.
“Enough emotional conversation during approach.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don't call me sir.”
“Your airplane.”
I smiled.
“My airplane.”
We landed gently.
Not perfect.
Good enough.
Mia applauded anyway.
After shutdown, she climbed out with the flower.
She stood on the ramp staring at the airplane.
Then she asked:
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I be a pilot?”
I looked at Aaron.
He grinned.
I looked back at my daughter.
“You can be whatever you're willing to work hard enough to become.”
She frowned.
“Can I fly first class?”
I started laughing.
Aaron doubled over.
Mia had no idea why it was so funny.
May you like
Then she smiled too.
And for the first time, Seat 2A was just a seat again.
