I was just trying to survive another cramped flight when everything changed. Lost in my audiobook and annoyed by the turbulence, I barely noticed the small hand tugging at my sleeve. A little boy, maybe three or four, stood in the aisle with teary eyes—then suddenly crawled into my lap as if he belonged there.
My stomach dropped.
I looked around, expecting someone to claim him, but no one did. The flight attendant smiled and walked past. Other passengers glanced our way but stayed silent. The boy curled against me like I was safety itself, his breathing slow and steady.
When we landed, I finally asked the woman across the aisle if she knew where his parents were. “I thought you were his mom,” she said, blinking in confusion.
That’s when the dread really set in.
Security was called. A social worker arrived, gentle but grim. They learned his name was Jacob—four years old, no belongings, just a tiny airplane sticker clutched in his hand. And for some reason, he refused to let go of me.
I stayed. Through the questions, the paperwork, the quiet sobs when he woke up confused. Months passed with no leads, no missing child reports. Then one night, as I tucked him into the little bed I’d bought just for him, he looked up and asked, “Are you my forever now?”
Tears burned my throat as I whispered back, “Yeah. I think I am.”
