Chapter 4 - Radio Silence at Thirty Thousand Feet
There is a peculiar kind of silence that only exists eight miles above the Atlantic Ocean. The hum of the jet engines acts as a white noise machine, erasing the trivialities of the ground below: unwashed dishes, unwatered lawns, and family members who treat you like an unpaid public utility.
I had the window seat. Outside, a vast, blinding expanse of white clouds stretched toward the curved blue horizon. Linda was already snoring softly beside me, an eye mask pulled over her forehead and a half-eaten bag of salted almonds resting on her tray table.
I pulled down my tray, opened my notebook, and began writing out our itinerary.
*Tuesday: Sintra and the Pena Palace.*
*Wednesday: Tram 28 through the historic quarters, seafood dinner by the harbor.*
*Thursday: Day trip to Cascais for sea breezes and grilled sardines.*
For three years, every itinerary I made had been conditional. *If Tori doesn't get called in for an emergency shift at her marketing firm.* *If Caleb’s golf tournament doesn't run long.* *If the nanny doesn't quit again.*
I thought back to the previous summer. I had bought tickets to see a touring Broadway production of *The Phantom of the Opera* in Chicago. An hour before I was supposed to leave, Tori had texted me saying she had "severe migraine aura" and Caleb was out of town at a craft brewery opening. When I arrived at their house, Tori was lying on the couch in sunglasses, holding an iced matcha latte, asking me if I could also throw in a load of laundry while keeping the kids quiet so she could rest. Two hours later, I saw a photo on her private Instagram story: she was sitting at an outdoor patio bar with three of her friends, sipping margaritas with the caption, *“Self-care Sunday while the village steps up!”*
The memory made my stomach turn.
I leaned my head against the cool acrylic window of the plane. I loved my grandchildren with every fiber of my being. I had rocked Chloe through colic; I had bandaged Finn’s scraped knees; I had baked cookies with Maggie and sung lullabies to Leo until my voice grew hoarse. But love was not supposed to be an open invitation for exploitation.
Around hour six of the flight, the flight attendants served a hot meal of braised chicken and rice. I ate every single bite, savoring the fact that I didn't have to cut anyone’s meat into half-inch cubes or blow on a spoonful of soup to cool it down.
When the cabin lights dimmed for the night, I felt an extraordinary lightness settle over my shoulders. For the first time in nearly a decade, nobody knew where I was, nobody could reach me, and nobody could guilt-trip me into sacrificing my own life.
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Caleb and Tori were somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, sailing smoothly toward Narita International Airport, blissfully assuming that back in Illinois, old Grandma Myrna was juggling four screaming kids, running a laundromat, and driving herself into an early grave.
They were about to have a very rude awakening when their plane touched down.
