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.
I sat there for a long moment, running my thumb over the little cloud stickers.
« You’ve got this, Tina, » I whispered to myself. « It’s just a flight. »
My phone buzzed.
It was an email from the airline.
Continue on the next page:
