Air travel is never easy, but for single parents flying with an infant, the challenge can feel overwhelming. That was my reality when I boarded a crowded plane with my baby boy, Ethan. What started as a desperate trip to my mother’s home for support quickly became a journey that revealed both the worst and the very best in people.
My life had already been turned upside down before that flight. My husband, David, was killed in a car accident when I was six months pregnant. One moment we were talking about paint colors for the nursery, and the next I was identifying his body in a hospital morgue. The silence that followed his death was unbearable. When Ethan was born three months later, healthy and perfect, I was grateful—but raising him alone often felt like drowning in shallow water, gasping for air with no relief in sight.
Money was always scarce. Survivor benefits barely stretched to cover the rent, groceries, and the bills. My old car threatened to quit on me daily. When Ethan’s teething hit hard—sleepless nights, endless crying—my mother begged me to come stay with her. Pride kept me saying no, but exhaustion finally broke me. I spent my last savings on the cheapest ticket I could find, hoping the flight would be bearable.
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