Lisa’s eyes stayed on her a beat longer than felt normal. There was something in her expression I couldn’t quite read: disappointment, maybe, or something colder.
I wanted to say it, but I didn’t.
Then the flight attendant turned toward me with a small, apologetic smile.
“Ma’am, if you’d like, I can seat you and your daughter together in row 12. Middle and aisle. I’m truly sorry.”
Behind me, the line of boarding passengers was starting to bunch up.
A man cleared his throat. Someone shifted a rolling bag.
Emma’s whimper was so quiet only I could hear it.
“I’m truly sorry.”
I made the calculation every mom with a child who has autism makes a hundred times a day.
Fight now, or protect her now. I couldn’t do both.
Plus, I didn’t want to make a scene in front of my daughter, so we walked away.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Row 12 is fine.”
Lisa nodded.
I didn’t want to make a scene.
