I was on a flight to Montana for my son’s farewell service when the pilot’s voice came over the speakers. It was calm, professional, the kind of tone you expect at 30,000 feet. Yet something in that voice cut through the fog I’d been living in, the fog that follows deep loss and leaves you moving through days like a guest in
your own life.
In that moment, my grief journey shifted. The sound carried me back four decades, to a classroom in Detroit and a teenage boy who barely spoke but understood engines better than most adults. As the plane leveled off, I realized the voice belonged to someone I had met 40 years ago, and that unexpected connection was about to shape my healing in ways I could never have planned.
My name is Margaret. I’m 63, and until recently, I would have told you that life had already shown me its biggest surprises. I was wrong.
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