“Bring her over.”
Her name was Halle.
Twenty-three, nine weeks in, and she stood in the aisle at Row 11 with her hands folded and said, to me and then to Maya, “I moved a mother away from her child because an experienced colleague told me there was a glitch and I didn’t check. I should have checked. There was a tablet in my hand the whole time and I didn’t check it because I was scared of the delay.” She looked at Maya. “You checked. You’re ten. I’m twenty-three and I had the actual seat map and you had a website you read three weeks ago, and you’re the one who checked.”
Maya, holding a paper cup of ice cream, said the most ten-year-old sentence in the history of aviation.
“It’s okay. It was your ninth week.”
Halle laughed and cried at the same time, which I’ve noticed is the standard response to my daughter.
