I was 34 weeks pregnant when my husband and I boarded a flight home after my father’s heart attack. I thought the worst part of our trip was behind us.
I was wrong. And when the captain made an unexpected announcement before we landed, I was certain something terrible had happened to my baby.
Earlier that week, Dad had collapsed while watering his tomatoes. My sister, Rachel, found him and called an ambulance. Dad was unconscious when Daniel and I arrived. The doctors couldn’t promise he would recover.
He managed a smile. By the following afternoon, he was complaining about the coffee.
Beside his bed, I described the crib Daniel had assembled backward. I’d chosen our daughter’s name, I said, but wouldn’t tell him until he woke.
On the third morning, his eyes opened.
“You look terrible,” he whispered.
“Nice to see you, too.”
I wanted to stay, but he squeezed my hand and made me promise to return with his granddaughter.
He managed a smile. By the following afternoon, he was complaining about the coffee.
“Go home,” he told me. “You’ve got somebody else to worry about.”
I wanted to stay, but he squeezed my hand and made me promise to return with his granddaughter.
My doctor had cleared me to fly, and until then, the pregnancy had been uneventful. Still, a dull ache had settled across my lower back that morning. I blamed the hospital chairs.
Daniel didn’t like the idea of traveling again so soon.
I had barely slept in three nights, and my legs ached from standing beside Dad’s bed. It was easy to explain away one more discomfort.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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