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.
I was doing my best to ignore the turbulence—and the man beside me who sighed dramatically every time I shifted in my seat—when I reached the halfway mark of my audiobook. That’s when I felt it: a tiny tug on my sleeve.
A little boy, maybe three or four years old, stood in the aisle with tear-streaked cheeks and wide, searching eyes. He looked like he’d been crying for hours. Before I could even react, he scurried forward and climbed straight into my lap.
Like he knew me.
Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
A chill ran through me.
People nearby turned to look, but said nothing. The flight attendant passed, offered a warm smile, and moved on as if this was nothing unusual. I sat frozen, unsure what to do.
My instinct was to ask where his parents were—but he had already tucked his head beneath my arm, sighing into me with the kind of relief that said he felt, finally, safe.
I glanced around, hoping—expecting—someone to speak up, to claim him. But no one did.
So I held him.
The entire flight.
No one came. Not a question, not a whisper. Just… silence.
When we landed and everyone stood to collect their bags, I finally leaned across the aisle and asked the woman nearest to us, “Do you know where his parents are?”
She blinked at me and said, “I thought you were his mom.”
That’s when the pit in my stomach truly began to form—heavy and cold, like a stone sinking deeper with every beat of my heart.
The boy was still curled against me, warm and small, his breathing deep and even like someone who hadn’t truly rested in days. I could feel the weight of his exhaustion, the kind of tired that lives in the bones. He didn’t stir, not even when the overhead lights flickered on and people began rustling around us, collecting their things.
I gently ran my hand along his back, more to comfort myself than him. I had no idea what to expect when those little eyes opened again. Would he cry? Would he speak? Would he even know where he was?
I glanced around once more, scanning the sea of passengers for someone—anyone—who looked like they were missing a child. But still, nothing. No searching eyes. No frantic movements. Just a stream of tired travelers filing past us like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
My heart thudded louder than the engines.
Do I wake him? Do I wait?
What do you do when a child chooses you—without words, without warning?
Uneasy, the woman across the aisle shrugged. “I simply assumed,” she murmured again, her voice now quieter, tinged with doubt.
I held the boy tighter to my chest, standing slowly, carefully. His small arms instinctively tightened around my neck, his body shifting just enough to show he was waking. My heart clenched painfully. Still, nobody came forward. The rows were emptying around us, passengers retrieving their bags, casting quick, curious glances at the little scene unfolding, but no one spoke up. No one moved toward us.
The silence stretched, suffocating.
Then, finally, a flight attendant appeared at the gate. She caught the uncertainty in my eyes, and her expression shifted—a flash of something cold before she forced a grin. “Oh—you don’t own him?”
I shook my head, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
Suddenly, everything happened too fast. The words “security” and “peaceful space” buzzed in the air, each one sharp and loaded with meaning. I stayed still, the boy nestled in my lap, clinging to me as if I were the last anchor in a storm.
A social worker appeared, kneeling next to me with a warm blanket draped over her arm and a voice softer than the others. “We’ll find out who he is. You made the right choice.”
But even as she spoke, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something more should’ve been done. Something more could’ve been done.
I didn’t feel like I had truly made the right decision—not yet.
Not when I hadn’t even known where to start.
After what felt like an eternity, they discovered his name: Jacob. Four years old. No bag. No identification. Just a small airplane sticker clutched tightly in his tiny hand. And he refused to let go of me—for hours, for days.
I stayed.
Through the night. Through the endless questions. Through the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears as I held him, not knowing if anyone would ever come to claim him. When Jacob finally woke up and realized he wasn’t at home, he sobbed quietly, his little face pressed against my chest. The social worker, ever so kind, looked at me with an unreadable expression before saying, “You don’t have to stay, but…” She paused, her voice soft, as if she knew exactly what it felt like. “He keeps asking for you.”
And so, I stayed.
Days blurred into weeks. Weeks into months. A steady rhythm settled over us, like the quiet hum of something that wasn’t quite right but was impossible to ignore. The pit in my stomach, which had once felt like a cold, unexplainable fear, was slowly replaced by something different. Something warmer. Something that felt like a strange mix of comfort, fear, and… love.
Jacob had no family to claim him. No missing child report. No leads, no one searching for him. And after the weeks turned into months, something else began to happen. He quietly, almost imperceptibly, began to infiltrate my life—into my home, into my heart.
And still… no one came.
I didn’t know what to do anymore.
One night, as I tucked him into the small fold-out bed I had bought just for him, Jacob looked up at me with those same wide, searching eyes that had first found their way into my lap months ago. He blinked slowly, almost as if the question had been waiting inside him for far too long.
“Are you my forever now?”
The question hit me like a wave, sudden and unrelenting. My heart squeezed painfully, and for a moment, I couldn’t find my voice. Tears threatened to rise in my throat, but I swallowed them down. I didn’t know how to answer him. I didn’t know what the right answer was.
But I couldn’t lie to him. Not now.
I reached out, brushing his unruly hair back from his forehead, and let the words escape in a quiet murmur.
“Yeah. I believe I am.”
In that moment, I wasn’t sure what I was promising—whether I was speaking for myself or for him, or both of us. But I knew I couldn’t turn away. Not from him. Not now.
And so, I stayed. I stayed with the quiet weight of those words hanging between us, knowing that they meant more than I was prepared to give.
