My grandmother gave up the first-class seat I bought for her and moved to economy instead. I was annoyed—until a pilot walked through the cabin looking specifically for her.
“They flew together.”
Then he pointed toward the silver wings.
“My father had a pair exactly like those.”
Grandma’s face drained of color.
“That’s impossible.”
She opened her purse again and pulled out a small photograph I had never seen before.
Two young pilots stood beside an aircraft, smiling into the sun.
One was Grandpa.
The captain reached for the picture with trembling fingers.
The other man was his father.
But when he turned the photograph over, there was handwriting on the back.
Grandma read it once.
Then again.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“What does it say?” I whispered.
She looked at the captain as though she had seen a ghost.
“It says Thomas wasn’t supposed to be on that final flight.”
The captain went pale.
“Mrs. Walsh… neither was my father.”
