Chapter 2 - The Woman in Seat 3A
For several seconds, nobody moved.
The woman stood ten feet away.
She looked somewhere in her early sixties, maybe younger, but grief had drawn fine lines around her mouth and eyes.
Her hair was silver-blonde.
Her eyes were dark brown.
Luca’s eyes.
Not similar.
The same.
Leo pressed against my side.
“Grandson?”
The woman began crying.
Not dramatically.
Her face simply folded.
“Oh, God.”
I looked at Marisol.
“Someone needs to explain this.”
The silver-haired woman took one cautious step toward us.
“My name is Elena.”
“I gathered that.”
“I’m Luca’s mother.”
The cabin seemed to tilt.
I actually grabbed the top of the nearest seat.
“That’s impossible.”
Her face flinched.
I regretted saying it immediately, but the words were already out.
Luca had told me his mother was gone.
Not “we don’t speak.”
Not “she left.”
Gone.
During the first year we dated, I asked about his parents.
His father, Antonio, had died when Luca was nineteen.
His mother, he said, was gone too.
I assumed she had died.
Maybe he allowed me to assume it.
Over eleven years together, I had never seen a photograph of her except an old family picture in a box at his aunt’s house.
Luca was twelve.
His father stood behind him.
A blonde woman had one hand on Luca’s shoulder.
I had asked, “Your mom?”
He closed the box.
“Yeah.”
That was all.
Now that woman stood in front of me.
Alive.
Looking at my son like she had waited her entire life to see him.
Leo looked up at me.
“Dad’s mom?”
My throat tightened.
Apparently.
Elena wiped her face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“That makes three of us.”
Marisol glanced toward the front.
“We need everyone seated. We’re about to push back.”
I almost laughed.
Of course.
My marriage had just detonated in row eighteen, but the aircraft still had an on-time departure target.
Elena hesitated.
“I’m in 3A.”
“Then you should sit down.”
“Anna—”
“Please.”
Something in my voice stopped her.
She returned to first class.
Leo and I sat.
The plane began moving.
He stared at his hands.
“Why didn’t Dad tell me Grandma Elena exists?”
I had no answer suitable for a seven-year-old.
So I gave him the only honest one.
“I don’t know.”
“Did Dad lie?”
The question hurt more than anything Elena had said.
“I don’t know that either.”
He leaned against me.
I put my arm around him.
Through the window, the terminal slid away.
The aircraft turned.
Engines deepened.
Normally, takeoff made Leo wildly excited.
That morning, he barely looked outside.
As Chicago dropped beneath us, I tried to organize what I knew.
Luca’s late calls.
His changed password.
The restaurant.
The hotel.
The mysterious Elena.
None of it looked like an affair anymore.
That should have brought relief.
Instead, I felt betrayed in a completely different direction.
He had hidden his mother.
For eleven years.
Why?
Once we reached cruising altitude, Marisol returned.
She crouched beside my seat.
“Captain Moretti asked me to give you something.”
I stared at her.
“He knows I’m here?”
“Not exactly.”
She held another envelope.
This one had my name.
ANNA.
My pulse kicked.
“When did he write that?”
“He gave it to me before boarding.”
“For me?”
“He said if you were somehow on the flight today, I should give it to you.”
That sentence made no sense.
“How would I somehow be on the flight?”
Marisol gave an apologetic smile.
“I think you should read it.”
Inside was one page.
Anna,
If you are reading this, then either Rebecca cannot keep a secret, or our son inherited your talent for complicated surprises.
I stopped.
Rebecca.
I was going to murder my sister.
I kept reading.
There is something I should have told you years ago.
My mother is alive.
Her name is Elena.
Before you decide I have lost my mind—and you would be justified—I need you to know that I did not hide her because I was ashamed of you or because I had another life.
I hid her because for most of my adult life I believed she chose to leave me.
Three months ago, she contacted me.
What she told me changed everything I thought I knew about my family.
I wanted proof before I brought it into our home.
I was wrong to keep you outside of it.
I’m sorry.
Please give me until Orlando to explain.
Luca.
At the bottom, in darker ink, he had added:
And if Leo is with you, tell him Captain Dad loves him.
My vision blurred.
Leo leaned over.
“What does it say?”
I folded the page.
“That Dad loves you.”
“I know that.”
Of course he did.
Children can sometimes locate the one truth adults are making unnecessarily complicated.
Two minutes later, Elena appeared beside us.
“May I sit for a moment?”
The aisle seat across from us was empty.
I nodded.
She lowered herself into it.
For a few seconds, she looked only at Leo.
“Hi,” she whispered.
Leo studied her.
“Are you really Dad’s mom?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you?”
Elena closed her eyes briefly.
“That’s a very fair question.”
Then she looked at me.
“His father kept us apart.”
My shoulders stiffened.
“Antonio?”
“Yes.”
“Luca worshipped his father.”
“I know.”
There was no bitterness in her voice.
That made me listen.
Elena opened her purse and removed an old envelope.
The paper had yellowed.
Luca’s name was written across it in the handwriting of someone much younger.
“I wrote to him every month after I left,” she said. “For seven years.”
“Left where?”
“Our home.”
“Why?”
Her fingers tightened around the envelope.
“Because Antonio told me if I stayed, he would make sure I never saw Luca again.”
I frowned.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It will.”
She handed me the letter.
The postmark was fifteen years old.
RETURN TO SENDER.
ADDRESS UNKNOWN.
“But Luca lived at the same address until college.”
“I know.”
My skin went cold.
She opened her purse again.
More letters.
Dozens.
Some returned.
Some unopened.
Some stamped with markings I didn’t understand.
“I thought Luca rejected me,” she said. “Luca thought I abandoned him.”
“Then what changed three months ago?”
Elena looked toward the cockpit.
“A man named Raymond Hale contacted me.”
I knew the name.
Raymond had been Antonio Moretti’s business partner before Antonio died.
He had attended our wedding.
He sent Leo birthday cards every year.
“What did Raymond say?”
“That he was dying.”
I stared at her.
“He wanted to confess.”
Elena opened a leather folder.
Inside were photocopies.
Bank records.
Legal documents.
A typed statement.
She pointed to one signature.
Antonio Moretti.
Then another.
Raymond Hale.
“The story Luca was raised with was a lie.”
I read the first paragraph.
My stomach tightened.
Elena leaned closer.
“Antonio didn’t just keep my letters from Luca.”
She took out one final document.
A court filing.
At the top was Luca’s name.
Under it, mine.
And then Leo’s.
My seven-year-old son.
I looked up sharply.
“Why is Leo’s name on this?”
Elena’s face went pale.
Before she could answer, the aircraft suddenly shuddered.
The seat belt sign chimed.
Marisol hurried down the aisle.
“Everyone seated now.”
Elena grabbed the folder.
“What’s happening?”
The plane dropped hard enough to make several passengers gasp.
Leo clutched my arm.
Then Luca’s voice came over the speakers.
Professional.
Controlled.
But I knew my husband.
I heard the strain beneath it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated with your seat belts securely fastened.”
A second jolt shook the cabin.
Marisol looked toward the cockpit.
Elena whispered, “Anna.”
“What?”
She slid the court paper back toward me.
At the bottom was a date.
The filing had been made six weeks earlier.
May you like
And beside Luca’s signature was a request I had never seen.
PETITION FOR TEMPORARY GUARDIANSHIP OF LEONARDO MORETTI.
