My hands are shaking as I write this, and I’m 73 years old. It’s not just because I’m elderly; it’s also because I still recall things that hurt. I buried my only daughter, Claire, three years ago. People who have lost a child know that life doesn’t just continue on. Time doesn’t heal the pain; every day might feel like a huge weight on your chest, reminding you that you’re missing a part of yourself. People say that grieving becomes easier with time, but they don’t explain that it never completely goes away. It keeps out of sight until you least expect it.
When Claire died, I cut myself off from the world. I didn’t answer the phone. I no longer go to church. I remained away from the neighbors who used to wave to me from across the street. The four walls of my house and the peaceful, quiet photographs on the mantel became my complete world. They were images of a family that used to be. Mark, my son-in-law, never gave up. He came even though he was unhappy. He would knock on my door, sometimes with food and sometimes simply to be there. He would sit with me in silence, letting the silence fill the space where words didn’t seem to work anymore.
Mark stared me right in the eye one night as we sat across from each other at my kitchen table over coffee we didn’t want. “Robert,” he said softly, “come down to Charlotte.” Please stay with us. “You need family.”
I said, “I don’t belong anywhere anymore,” not because I was being dramatic, but because I was sure I was cut off for good.
He didn’t hesitate when he said, “Yes, you do.” “You should be with me. With us.
He spoke something in a strong but gentle voice that got through. I agreed, even though I wanted to stay where I felt safe in my misery. Two weeks later, I had a ticket to travel. It had been a long time since I had been on a plane. I got nauseated just thinking about airports, long lines, loud announcements, and strangers bumping into me. But I did give it a shot. The morning of the flight, I carefully put on the dark jacket Claire had given me for Father’s Day years ago. It was worth a lot, even though it was old. I hadn’t shaved in weeks, but I did it for the first time and whispered, “For you, kiddo,” as I looked at Claire’s picture on my nightstand. Then I headed outside.
Getting to the airport was harder than I anticipated it would be. A group of boisterous young men made fun of how I appeared as I got to the bus terminal. One of them grabbed my arm and tore a small seam in my jacket. It wasn’t much, but it seemed like they had taken a piece of Claire from me. I tried not to let it show. I continued going even though my hands shook and my chest felt tight. As I went to the airport, I could feel people looking at me. Some were curious, while others were uneasy. The jacket might have been the problem. Maybe it was the way I looked. I might have just looked like I didn’t belong.
I dropped my luggage, messed with the bins, and almost tripped while trying to take off my shoes in queue for security. Nobody helped me. Someone behind me complained loudly and muttered something about those who are “too old to travel.” I didn’t say anything. I had already decided that I wouldn’t talk until someone else did. I just wanted the plane to land.
The flight attendants were courteous when I finally got on board, but I could tell they were watching me. I gently proceeded to my seat. The man next to me glanced me over swiftly, then turned away and laughed to himself. I didn’t ask what was so funny. I closed my eyes and tried to remember when Claire was little and placed her face against the jet’s window. “Daddy,” she shouted one, “the clouds look like candy!” That recollection was the only thing that made me feel good.
The flight lasted a long time. I didn’t say anything at all. I didn’t move around much. I just sat there. When the captain indicated we were going down, I was glad.
But then something happened that I didn’t expect.
We heard the captain’s voice over the intercom as we taxied to the gate. His voice, steady and calm, echoed through the cabin. “Before we leave, I need to thank someone very important on board,” he remarked.
I stopped moving because I didn’t know what was going on.
“This man is my father-in-law,” the captain said next. Three years ago, my wife, who was his daughter, died. Robert has been my anchor and a father figure to me, even if he is sad. He flew for the first time in decades to come live with us and reconnect with his family. You could have seen him today. You might have had an unfavorable opinion of him. But I think he’s the most adventurous guy I know.
The plane became quiet. People stopped chatting. There were no more judgments, whispers, or laughter. People slowly turned their heads to gaze at me. A few folks gasped. Some individuals began to clap. After then, other people joined in. Everyone in the cabin was standing and clapping in a matter of seconds.
I couldn’t believe what I saw. The man who had made fun of me previously wiped his eyes. A woman who was seated across from me gently put her hand on my shoulder. I could hardly breathe, not because I was terrified, but because I hadn’t felt like anyone saw me in a long time. Not like an old man who is unhappy and hunched over. Not like someone who doesn’t fit in. But as a father. As a man who has lost someone and still has the guts to get on a plane. As someone who still mattered.
The applause didn’t move me. I had the thought that I might not be invisible after all. That maybe, even after all the pain, there was still a place for me in the world. And when I stepped off that plane and started a new chapter in my life, I didn’t feel as lonely.