Part 1: The Stranger in Seat 14A
Three weeks after my divorce was finalized, I boarded a flight from Denver to Baltimore carrying two suitcases, a stuffed diaper bag, and my fifteen-month-old daughter, Clara.
My ex-husband, Jason Miller, had already drained our joint savings account and replaced the locks on our townhouse. At thirty-two, I had nowhere permanent to live and barely enough money to make it through the summer. My cousin Sarah had offered us her guest room in Annapolis while I looked for a job as a medical billing specialist.
It was hardly the fresh, exciting beginning people loved to talk about.
It was simply the safest place Clara and I had left to go.
By the time we reached our seats, Clara was worn out. She leaned against my shoulder as I wrestled with the stroller, her stuffed lamb, and everything else we had brought with us.
A woman sitting across the aisle let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Wonderful. A toddler.”
I nearly apologised, despite the fact that Clara had not made a sound.
Before I could answer, the man in the window seat turned toward the woman.
“She has as much right to be here as anyone,” he said calmly. “The adults can manage a little patience.”
The woman looked embarrassed and faced away.
I thanked him as I settled into my seat.
“I’m Megan.”
“Marcus Reed.”
He seemed to be in his early forties, with the first traces of silver appearing at his temples. He helped put away my stroller, picked up Clara’s toy each time she dropped it, and folded a napkin into a bird that looked more like a crushed triangle.
