Some weeks I added twenty dollars.
Other weeks, just a few.
Maya added coins from her pink purse, believing each one brought us closer to saying goodbye to her mother.
When we boarded and she saw the large seats, her face brightened.
“Daddy, are these really ours?”
“They are.”
For ten minutes, I felt I had kept my promise.
Then the gate agent appeared with a tablet.
Behind him was a man in an expensive navy suit.
The businessman had arrived late but was apparently a major corporate traveler whose company expected first-class seating.
According to the agent, he “required” our seat.
Required.
Not requested.
The agent eyed my cane, worn boots, and Maya’s old coat.
I could almost see him decide.
We looked least likely to complain.
I held up our boarding passes.
“These are our seats. I paid for them.”
The agent gave me a stiff smile.
“I understand, sir, but please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
