My suitcase was packed with candy and decorations. And tucked inside my carry-on, swaddled in a blanket, was one very special present for my grandson, a boy who lives for horror movies and practical jokes.
“Mom,” my daughter likes to say, “sometimes I feel like I’m raising three kids, not two.”
I’ve always taken that as a compliment.
I should mention that I’ve had type 2 diabetes for years, and I’m a big woman. I’ve made my peace with my body. That doesn’t mean the occasional cruel comment never lands. It just means I don’t let it ruin my day.
At least, that was the plan.
I boarded in a wonderful mood and took my usual aisle seat. I always book the aisle. It’s easier to get up, and I don’t have to climb over anybody.
The woman by the window was maybe forty. Thin, polished, beautifully dressed, with a watch that probably cost more than my car. She was wearing so much perfume that I wondered if the bottle had tipped over in her purse.
When I sat down, she gave me a long look from head to toe and sighed.
