Part 2 of 3

She just looked tired.

“Your daughter found this,” she said.

“She told me.”

Evelyn held up the picture.

“That’s my daughter, Jenna.”

I nodded.

She looked at Noah sleeping against me.

“The baby’s name is Sophie.”

“She’s beautiful.”

Evelyn looked down.

“I’ve never met her.”

That surprised me enough that I said nothing.

Evelyn turned forward again.

About ten minutes later, she stood and came into the aisle.

“Would you switch back?”

I looked at Louise.

She was already unbuckling her seat belt.

When I sat beside Evelyn again, she moved toward the window to give me more room.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then she placed the photograph on the tray table between us.

“I’m flying to meet her.”

“Your granddaughter?”

“Both of them.”

She rubbed her thumb along one corner of the photograph.

“Jenna hasn’t spoken to me properly in almost seven months.”

I didn’t know what response she expected.

So I just said, “I’m sorry.”

Evelyn gave a small, embarrassed laugh.

“You probably shouldn’t be.”

“I Thought I Was Helping Her”

Evelyn told me the story in pieces.

Jenna was thirty-two. She lived several states away with her partner, Daniel. Evelyn didn’t like how quickly they had moved in together. She didn’t like the neighborhood they chose. She thought Jenna should have returned to work sooner after having Sophie.

Then she corrected herself.

“Actually, I thought she should stay home longer.”

She shook her head.

“I apparently had an opinion about everything.”

I adjusted Noah against my shoulder.

“Did she ask for those opinions?”

Evelyn looked at me.

“Not usually.”

That was the first honest answer she’d given me.

She told me that Jenna had stopped answering some of her calls during the pregnancy. Evelyn responded by calling more often.

When Jenna said she needed space, Evelyn sent articles.

When Jenna asked her not to criticize Daniel, Evelyn explained that she was only worried.

When Jenna chose a pediatrician, Evelyn researched other pediatricians.

When Jenna bought a crib, Evelyn sent her a link to another crib.

“I thought I was helping her.”

I looked at the photograph between us.

“Did she think you were helping?”

Evelyn didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

She opened her purse and pulled out a small notebook.

There was a handwritten list inside.

Guest room.

Baby schedule.

Daniel’s work hours.

Day care.

Kitchen safety.

Pediatrician.

I looked at her.

“What’s that?”

Evelyn closed the notebook.

“Things I wanted to discuss with Jenna.”

“On your first visit?”

She nodded.

I couldn’t help it.

I laughed.

Not loudly.

Evelyn looked offended for half a second, then looked at the notebook and laughed too.

“It looks worse when someone else sees it.”

“It looks like an inspection.”

She put it back into her purse.

“That’s probably how she’ll see it.”

“How would you see it?”

Evelyn looked at me.

I didn’t need to explain.

She already knew.

Noah stirred between us, and I started bouncing him gently. Evelyn watched him for a moment.

“I was awful to you.”

I didn’t say no.

She swallowed.

“You were feeding your baby, and I made you feel like you were doing something wrong.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes moved toward the seat in front of us.

“I’m sorry.”

I waited.

There was no but.

No explanation about her generation.

No complaint about airplanes.

No I didn’t mean it that way.

Just an apology.

“Thank you,” I said.

She nodded.

Then she looked back at Louise.

“Your daughter is terrifying.”

I smiled.

“Her father used to say the same thing.”

Evelyn looked at me.

“Used to?”

I had managed nearly three hours without telling her.

Maybe because I didn’t want sympathy.

Maybe because saying it aloud still made it too real.

I touched Noah’s back.

“My husband died last month.”

Evelyn’s expression went blank.

“Oh.”

“He was thirty-seven.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“And you’re traveling alone with both children?”

“We’re going to my mother’s.”

Evelyn stared at the photograph on the tray table.

Then she whispered, “And I told you to stay home.”

I didn’t answer.

She picked up the photograph and put it carefully back into her purse.

A minute later, she took out her phone.

“What should I say to Jenna?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know your daughter.”

“But you’re a daughter.”

That made me think of my own mother waiting at the airport.

I thought about how many times she had tried to fix things for me during Mark’s illness and how often she had stopped herself and simply asked what I needed.

So I told Evelyn the only thing I knew.

“Don’t explain yourself.”

She frowned.

“What?”

“If you’re sorry, tell her you’re sorry. Don’t tell her why you did it. Don’t tell her you were worried. Don’t tell her you meant well. She already knows what you meant.”

Evelyn looked at her phone.

“Just apologize?”

“Just apologize.”

Her thumbs hovered over the screen.

Then she began typing.