time finally came, I booked her first class.
Seat 3A.
I wanted her to have everything.
Space.
Comfort.
A real meal.
A seat that reclined almost flat.
She was turning eighty and facing something she had avoided for twenty-seven years.
I wanted the experience to feel special.
Then I booked myself into 3B beside her.
The total made my stomach hurt.
I put it on my credit card anyway.
And now, at the gate, she had traded that expensive seat for 34A without hesitation.
“You’re upset,” Grandma said while we
