That’s when the pit in my stomach really started to grow
Mid-flight, he crawled into my lap, and nobody came to claim him.
At first, I didn’t even notice him.
Trying to ignore the turbulence and the man next to me who kept letting out a loud sigh whenever I moved, I was halfway through my audiobook.
A little hand then tugged at my sleeve. This young youngster, who might have been three or four years old, just stood in the aisle with his eyes wide and appeared to have been crying.
He scudded straight into my lap before I could say anything. As if he recognized me, he curled up. As if he had already done it.
I went cold.
Everyone in our vicinity looked over, but no one spoke. The flight attendant passed by, gave him a nice smile, and continued on. I was at a loss for what to do.
My initial reaction was to inquire about his parents’ whereabouts, but he had already snuggled his head under my arm and was breathing slowly as if he was at last secure.
I looked about us in the rows, expecting for someone to say something. However, nothing.
I kept him in my arms the entire flight. Nobody came to get him. Not a word. Don’t panic. Just silence.
I eventually asked the woman across the aisle if she knew where his parents were once we touched down and everyone got up to grab their bags.
She said, “I thought you were his mom,” blinking at me.
The pit in my gut really began to develop at that point.
Proceed
The pit in my gut really began to develop at that point.
The young youngster was still curled up against me, breathing steadily and deeply as if he hadn’t slept for days. Uncertain of what to expect when his eyelids opened again, I lightly stroked his back while attempting to determine whether or not to wake him.
Uneasy, the woman on the other side of the aisle shrugged. “I simply assumed,” she repeated, her voice lower now.
I held him to my chest as I gently stood up. His arms tightened over my neck as he stirred slightly. My heart tightened. Nobody—nobody—came forward. The rows were cleared. People glanced at each other, but nobody arrived.
Finally, a flight attendant at the gate saw the doubt in my eyes. She scowled after grinning. “Oh—you don’t own him?”
After I shook my head, things started to move quickly. They called security. a peaceful space. Kindly inquire. I was sitting with the boy in my lap when a social worker came over, kneeling next to me with a warm blanket and a gentle voice.
She said, “We’ll find out who he is.” “You made the correct decision.”
However, I didn’t feel like I had done quite enough.
After a while, they discovered that his name was Jacob. He was four years old. No bag, no identity. Just a small sticker of an airplane held in one hand. And he refused to let go of me for hours and hours.
I remained. all through the night. via the inquiries. When he eventually woke up and discovered he wasn’t at home, he sobbed quietly.
The social worker gave me the sweetest look and added, “You don’t have to stay, but…” in between sunrise and another cup of cold coffee. He keeps requesting you.
So I stayed.
Weeks passed. Weeks turn into months. And something else gradually took the place of the pit in my stomach—something cozy, frightful, and lovely.
Because he infiltrated my family covertly after they were unable to locate his—no claim, no missing child report, no lead.
He questioned, “Are you my forever now?” as he gazed up at me with those same wide eyes one night as I tucked him in on the tiny fold-out bed I had purchased just for him.
With tears in my throat, I took a deep drink. I brushed his hair back and muttered, “Yeah.” “I believe I am.”
