I adopted twin babies I found abandoned on a plane eighteen years ago. They pulled me out of a grief so deep I wasn’t sure I’d survive it. Last week, a stranger showed up at my door claiming to be their mother—and it was immediately clear why she had returned. It wasn’t love.
My name is Margaret. I’m 73, and this all began the day I flew home to bury my daughter.
Eighteen years ago, I sat on a crowded flight, fingers twisted around a damp tissue, staring into nothing. My daughter and grandson had died in a car crash while I was away. I was heading back for their funeral, hollow and numb.
Then I heard it—a desperate, piercing cry from just a few rows ahead. Two infants, a boy and a girl, six months old, completely alone, shaking with fear. The comments around me made my blood boil:
“Can’t someone shut those kids up?” a woman hissed.
“They’re disgusting,” muttered a man as he brushed past.
Flight attendants passed with tight, polite smiles, offering nothing. Every time anyone stepped near, the babies flinched.
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