I’m 65, and this past year reshaped my life in ways I never imagined. My daughter passed away after giving birth, and before the sun rose, I had become both a grandmother and a mother again. Her husband held the baby once, whispered something I couldn’t catch, and then vanished—leaving only a note that said I’d “know what to do.”
I named her Lily. My daughter had chosen that name long before. Sweet, simple, strong. At 3 a.m., when I rock her and whisper “Lily,” it feels like I’m borrowing my daughter’s voice for just one more moment. Money is tight. Sleep is rare. Some nights I sit in the glow of the refrigerator, counting bills and praying the formula will stretch until morning.
An old friend urged me to visit. “Bring the baby. I’ll help you rest,” she said. So, I scraped together the cheapest ticket I could find. The diaper bag felt heavier than my shoulders could carry, but I boarded anyway.
From the start, Lily cried—a raw, aching wail that echoed through the aluminum cabin. I tried everything: rocking, singing the lullaby I once hummed to her mother, warming her bottle against my chest. Passengers turned, sighed, rolled their eyes. The man beside me pressed his fingers to his temples, theatrically suffering.
Finally, he snapped. “For God’s sake, shut that baby up! If you can’t keep her quiet, move. Go to the galley. Lock yourself in the bathroom. Anywhere but here.”
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