I wasn’t meant to be on that flight.
Not with the two of them.
Dariel, my ex, had Lyla for the week. He’d told me he was taking her to visit his sister in Denver. I knew the itinerary. What he didn’t know—what nobody knew—was that I had quietly booked myself a seat on that same plane.
Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was just that gut-deep, unmistakable pull mothers feel when something isn’t right. Dariel had been… off. Too courteous. Too cooperative since the custody ruling hadn’t gone in his favor. And Lyla? She’d giggled something about a “huge surprise” Daddy had up his sleeve.
So I found the last available seat. Back of the plane, other side. I pulled on a hat and kept my face low when they boarded. Lyla beamed as she walked past me, gave a double thumbs-up from her aisle seat. I felt a knot form in my chest. She had no idea I was just a few rows behind, trying to blend in, trying to breathe.
Dariel looked nervous. Fidgety. Kept glancing at his watch, checking his phone—like he was waiting for something. Or someone.
Once we reached cruising altitude, I saw him pull a manila envelope from his bag. He didn’t open it immediately. Just stared. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper—folded, slightly worn.
I recognized the handwriting instantly. It was mine.
One of the letters I’d written to the judge during the custody proceedings. I knew it by the way the “L” in Lyla curled, and the faint stain from the tea I’d spilled the night I wrote it.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
Why would he have that?
The cabin was calm. Lyla was humming softly while flipping through a coloring book. A flight attendant passed with snacks, and I feigned sleep, but my eyes stayed on him—watching through the sliver between the seats.
Then he opened the envelope.
Inside was a packet of documents. The word “Consulate” stood out in bold letters on the top page.
And just like that, it hit me.
He wasn’t flying to Denver.
He was planning to take her out of the country.
My entire body went cold. I reached for my phone—fingers trembling. No signal. Of course.
I scanned the emergency card in the seatback like it might offer a solution. I searched for a flight attendant, but they were busy up front. I couldn’t make a move. Couldn’t alert Dariel.
If I panicked, he might panic. And Lyla—sweet, innocent Lyla—was sitting right between us.
I forced my eyes shut. Breathed slowly.
There had to be a way to stop this without letting it spiral—especially not at 30,000 feet.
When the wheels finally touched down, I was ready.
I never took my eyes off them.
Dariel was suddenly at ease, chatting casually as they gathered their things…