I really should have seen it coming that something would go wrong on that flight. After a tiring week spent visiting his parents, my husband, Rodney, and I were finally on our way home. I don’t want to sound ungrateful—I really do care about his family—but I was really longing for my own bed, my own shower, and my own space. The night had fallen, and we were both completely exhausted, our minds and bodies drained, just wanting to drift off to sleep on the plane. If only things had turned out differently.
We hopped on the flight a bit late, just shy of midnight, at a London airport, ready for an eight-hour trek back to the States. The exhaustion hung heavy on my eyelids, but I held onto the thought of my goal: Soon, I’d be home, ready to collapse into my cozy bed, and perhaps wake up around noon if I wanted to. Rodney was just as excited, exclaiming, “I can’t wait to enjoy the amazing water pressure in our shower—my parents’ place barely has a drip!” We both shared a laugh over that. Even the smallest comforts feel like treasures after a week spent away from home.
I held onto my backpack tightly as Rodney grabbed our shared carry-on, and we made our way down the aisle to our seats, 28B and 28C. It wasn’t exactly first class—more like a step above basic—but at least we were sitting next to each other. Rodney was stuck in the middle seat while I enjoyed the view from the window seat. The aisle seat was left open for whoever would be sitting next to us. We were just too exhausted to bother. Rodney got comfortable, letting out a sigh of relief as he tucked our bag away under the seat. I swiftly took my pillow out of my backpack—it’s my essential companion for flights.
“All I want,” I murmured, leaning in closer to Rodney, “is to catch a bit of sleep.”
He let out a laugh. “I feel the same way.” Here’s to hoping things stay calm and uneventful.