A woman shoved ahead of my 81-year-old father at airport security and mocked him for being slow. Dad told me to let it go, but seconds later, two pilots stopped in their tracks, and suddenly, everyone was looking at him differently.
“Let me get that, Dad.”
I reached for my father’s jacket as he struggled with one sleeve.
Before I could help, a woman in an expensive navy suit stepped around us and planted her suitcase directly in front of his cane.
“We’re all going to miss our flights waiting for Grandpa.”
My father quietly stepped back.
I didn’t.
“Excuse me. He was ahead of you.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Then Grandpa should learn how airports work.”
Heat rushed into my face.
Dad touched my arm.
“Let it go.”
That was exactly the sort of thing he always said.
At 81, he could still silence me with three words and one look.
But I was furious.
He hadn’t flown in almost 20 years.
Getting him onto that plane had taken months of persuasion, and I had promised I would stay beside him the entire way.
My daughter, Claire, was getting married in Denver.
When she called him and said, “I can’t imagine walking down the aisle without you there,” Dad finally agreed to come.
Now, the security line was packed, and he was leaning on his cane while trying to remove his jacket.
His fingers shook.
“Here,” I said. “I’ve got it.”
“I’m 81, Elaine. I’m not 8.”
“Then stop acting like you’re too stubborn to need help.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
Then the woman turned around.
“Are you two done? You’ve been holding up the line.”
Dad caught my wrist before I could answer.
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