Not with them, anyway.
My ex, Dariel, had custody for the week and was taking our daughter, Lyla, to visit his sister in Denver. I knew the trip was happening, but what he didn’t know—what no one knew—was that I’d booked myself a seat on the same flight.
Call it paranoia, or maybe just mother’s instinct. Something felt off. Dariel had been acting weird—too polite, too agreeable—ever since the custody hearing didn’t go his way. And Lyla? She’d mentioned “a big surprise” Daddy was planning.
So yeah, I booked the last seat I could get, back row, opposite side. I wore a hat and kept my head low as they boarded. When Lyla smiled and gave those double thumbs up from the aisle seat, I felt a lump in my throat. She had no idea I was just a few rows away, watching, trying to act normal.
Dariel looked tense. He kept checking his watch and staring at his phone like he was waiting for something—or someone.
We hit cruising altitude, and I saw him pull out a manila envelope from his carry-on. He didn’t open it right away. He just stared at it. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something else: a folded piece of paper with handwriting I recognized but hadn’t seen in months.
It was mine.
One of the letters I’d written to the judge during the custody battle. I recognized the curled “L” in Lyla’s name and the smudge where I’d spilled tea.
My stomach dropped.
Why was he carrying that?
The flight was quiet, except for Lyla humming something and flipping through a coloring book. A flight attendant rolled by with snacks, and I pretended to be asleep. But I kept peeking through the tiny gap between the seats.
