The airport had been harder than I expected.
There were people hurrying in every direction, announcements coming through the speakers, and lines that seemed to move only when I had finally settled Lily in my arms.
I kept my bag close and checked her blanket whenever the air-conditioning made her little hands feel cool.
She slept for part of the wait.
That gave me a chance to sit down.
I didn't relax, though.
I was too busy thinking about what might go wrong.
Would she cry during takeoff?
Would the noise frighten her?
Would I be able to reach everything in the bag without disturbing the people around me?
I had packed carefully, but a packed bag could not prepare you for every possibility.
When our boarding group was called, I stood slowly, adjusting Lily against my shoulder.
My back already hurt.
I told myself not to think about it.
One step at a time.
That was how I had learned to live since losing my daughter.
The plane looked larger from the doorway than it had from the terminal window.
People were finding their seats, lifting bags into overhead compartments, and stepping aside for those behind them.
I followed the row numbers with my eyes.
When I found our seats, I moved into the row and tried to settle everything without getting in anyone's way.
My ticket was for economy class.
I hadn't expected anything more.
I was grateful simply to have a place to sit with Lily beside me.
The man seated next to me barely looked up when I arrived.
He had already settled himself comfortably, with his belongings arranged around him.
I offered a quiet greeting.
He gave me little response.
I didn't take it personally.
People traveled for different reasons.
Some were going on holiday.
Others were visiting family or heading home after work.
Some simply wanted to be left alone.
I understood that.
I wanted the same thing, in a way.
I wanted to get through the flight quietly, keep Lily comfortable, and arrive without making anyone's journey more difficult.
I placed our bag where I could reach it.
Then I checked Lily's blanket, touched her cheek, and made sure she was settled securely in my arms.
For a few minutes, everything went well.
She looked around with wide eyes.
The unfamiliar sounds seemed to interest her more than frighten her.
I whispered to her, telling her we were going to see a friend.
I don't know how much she understood.
Probably nothing.
But talking to her made me feel calmer.
The plane began preparing for departure.
People fastened their seat belts.
The cabin crew moved through the aisle, checking that everyone was ready.
I adjusted Lily again and tried to make myself comfortable.
My knees felt stiff.
I shifted my bag a little closer with my foot.
Then the aircraft began moving.
Lily startled.
Her fingers tightened against my blouse.
I pressed my cheek lightly against her head and murmured to her.
"It's all right, sweetheart."
She made a small unhappy sound.
I rocked her gently.
For a moment, I thought that would be enough.
Then the crying began.
It started softly, with a few short cries that grew louder as the plane continued toward the runway.
I tried to settle her before the noise became too much.
I checked whether she was hungry.
I adjusted her position.
I offered her the bottle I had prepared.
She turned her face away and cried harder.
I tried walking my hand slowly over her back, the way I did at home when she became restless.
Nothing worked.
I felt the familiar panic beginning to rise in my chest.
A baby could cry for so many reasons.
Sometimes she wanted food.
Sometimes she wanted sleep.
Sometimes she simply needed time to get used to something new.
But on a plane, surrounded by strangers, every possibility felt urgent.
I couldn't take her into another room.
I couldn't put her down and let her settle herself.
I could only hold her and keep trying.
The aircraft lifted into the air.
Lily's cries rose with it.
I bent my head over her, shielding her as much as I could with my arms.
I whispered to her.
I hummed a little.
I tried to remember which song had soothed her the previous night.
She kept crying.
I became aware of the people around us.
A passenger across the aisle turned to look.
Someone behind me sighed.
Another person shifted in their seat and glanced in our direction.
I tried not to watch them.
Their reactions made me feel as though I had done something wrong simply by bringing Lily onto the plane.
I knew babies cried.
I knew I wasn't the first person to travel with one.
Still, knowing something and feeling it were two different things.
My cheeks grew hot.
I looked down at Lily and wished I could somehow explain to everyone that I wasn't ignoring her.
I wasn't letting her cry because I couldn't be bothered.
I was trying everything I knew.
My arms were beginning to ache from holding her in the same position.
I changed sides carefully, keeping her head supported.
She cried through the movement.
I offered the bottle again.
She pushed against it with her mouth and turned away.
I checked her diaper as discreetly as I could.
Nothing seemed to help.
Then the man beside me turned toward us.
His expression made my stomach tighten before he even spoke.
"Could you get her to stop?"
His voice was sharp enough that I heard it clearly over the crying.
I looked at him.
"I'm trying," I said.
My voice came out quieter than I intended.
He stared at me as if I had offered an excuse instead of an answer.
I felt the people around us becoming attentive again.
I wanted to disappear into my seat.
Instead, I adjusted Lily against my chest and tried to soothe her.
The man let out an impatient breath.
He complained that he had paid for his seat and should not have to listen to a baby crying.
I looked down at Lily.
Her face had become red, and tears glistened around her eyes.
She wasn't doing anything deliberately.
She was a baby in a strange place, frightened or uncomfortable, with no way to tell me what she needed.
I tried to explain that I was doing my best.
I asked him to give me a moment.
I even apologized.
Looking back, that part still makes me uncomfortable.
I was apologizing for a baby who needed comfort.
I was apologizing to a stranger because I couldn't make a child stop crying on command.
At the time, though, I wanted only to calm the situation.
I had no wish to argue.
I was tired, embarrassed, and painfully aware that I had nowhere to go.
The man leaned toward me.
His voice grew louder.
He told me that my efforts were not good enough and that he would not spend the flight listening to the noise.
I froze.
There are moments when someone speaks to you so harshly that your mind seems to stop working.
You hear the words.
You understand them.
But for a few seconds, you cannot find an answer.
That was how I felt.
I held Lily closer.
She was still crying.
The man continued, demanding that I take her away from the seating area.
He said I should go into the restroom if necessary and remain there until she became quiet.
I stared at him.
The restroom.
With a baby in my arms.
As though that were a reasonable place for me to spend the rest of the flight.
I wanted to tell him that I had paid for my seat too.
I wanted to tell him that I had spent months saving for this trip, and that I was not asking him to care for my granddaughter.
I was only asking for a little patience.
But the words remained trapped behind my teeth.
My eyes began to sting.
I turned my face away so he would not see the tears forming.
I had already lost my daughter.
I was trying to give Lily a safe home.
I was doing my best to keep us both going on money that barely covered our needs.
And now, in a crowded cabin thousands of feet above the ground, I felt like a burden because the child I loved was crying.
The shame was almost physical.
I looked down at Lily.
Her tiny hand had caught the edge of my blouse.
I kissed her forehead.
"I'm here," I whispered.
I didn't know whether she heard me.
I only hoped she could feel my arms around her.
The man shifted impatiently beside me.
He made it clear that he expected me to move.
I looked toward the aisle.
There was nowhere else to go.
But I couldn't sit there and continue listening to him speak to me that way.
I gathered our things as best I could, keeping Lily secure against my chest.
My hands trembled so badly that I struggled to move the bag.
I stood.
For one brief second, I hoped the man might realize how cruel he had been.
He didn't.
I stepped into the aisle, holding Lily close.
My legs felt unsteady.
I began moving toward the rear of the aircraft, where I hoped I could find a moment to compose myself.
I wasn't thinking clearly.
I only wanted to get away from the stares.
I wanted somewhere to hold my granddaughter without feeling as though every person in the cabin was judging me.
I took another step.
Then another.
And before I reached the restroom, someone moved into my path.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Was Ready to Hide in the Smallest Corner of the Plane When Lily Stopped Crying and Reached Toward Someone I Had Never Expected
I Thought the Hardest Thing Was Learning to Raise a Baby at Sixty-Five, Until a Stranger Made Me Feel Ashamed of Loving Her
Part 2 of 8
