My jaw just about hit the floor because… the pilot wasn’t a stranger at all.
He was my father.
The father I hadn’t seen in over 18 years.
His hair was more silver than I remembered, his uniform sharper, his posture more confident. But those eyes — I would’ve recognized them anywhere.
I stood up slowly, stunned. “Dad…?”
He gave a quiet nod, emotion flickering across his face. “I was hoping you’d recognize me.”
A thousand questions ran through my mind — why now? Where had he been? Why hadn’t he reached out?
He took a step closer. “I know I don’t deserve it. I left. I missed everything. But when I saw your name on the passenger list… I knew I had to try.”
For a moment, I didn’t say anything. My heart was pounding. Part of me wanted to scream. Part of me wanted to cry. But mostly, I just stood there, caught between the weight of the past and the possibility of forgiveness.
Finally, I whispered, “Why now?”
He swallowed. “Because I’ve been carrying the guilt for too long. And I thought… maybe this flight was my second chance.”
There was silence between us.
Then, almost without realizing it, I stepped forward — and hugged him.
Not because everything was okay.
But because maybe, just maybe, it finally could be.