And within seconds, his knee was touching mine again.

I wanted to kick myself.

Why hadn’t I spoken up?

Because I hated confrontations.

Because I didn’t want strangers staring.

Because I’d spent decades believing that being kind meant tolerating discomfort rather than inconveniencing someone else.

I looked down at my book.

I’d read the same paragraph so many times that I could almost recite it.

But I still had no idea what was happening in the story.

I pulled out my phone and opened the newest photograph of Rose.

Marianne had sent another picture of her sleeping in that enormous knitted hat.

My expression softened.

I was traveling all this way to meet my granddaughter.

I wanted to arrive happy.

Excited.

Ready to hold her.

Not exhausted and limping through the airport because I’d spent hours twisted against an airplane window.

I looked toward Josh’s leg.