I boarded the plane, found seat 3A—a window seat in the front cabin—and collapsed. I pressed my forehead against the cool plastic of the window shade, fighting back the tears that threatened to drown me.
I thought it was over. I thought I had escaped.
But as I heard the heavy thud of boots coming down the aisle, followed by that shrill, unmistakable voice complaining about the “lack of overhead space,” I realized the nightmare wasn’t finished. Mrs. Vansant was sitting in 4A. Directly behind me.
And she wasn’t done with me yet.
The cabin of the Airbus A321 was designed for comfort—soft leather, ambient lighting, the promise of escape. But as Mrs. Vansant slammed her carry-on into the bin above my head, rattling my teeth, the space felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage.
“I can’t believe they let people like that up front,” she was saying to her husband, loud enough for the first five rows to hear. “Probably an upgrade. The airline feels sorry for the charity cases.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Breathe, Emily. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. It was the breathing exercise my oncologist had taught me for the panic attacks.
“Mommy, I want juice!” her child wailed.
“Hush, Tyler. We have to wait because the special people need time to settle in,” she cooed, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
I pulled my headphones out of my bag, my hands trembling. I just wanted to block her out. I wanted to disappear. But as I reached up to adjust the air vent, my hoodie sleeve slid down, exposing the fresh, bruising track marks of my IV lines and the plastic bracelet I hadn’t had the heart to cut off yet.
