I didn’t even notice him at first. I was halfway into my audiobook, trying to ignore the turbulence and the guy next to me who kept sighing dramatically every time I moved. Then I felt a tiny hand tug at my sleeve.
This little boy—maybe three or four—just stood there in the aisle, eyes wide, looking like he’d been crying. Before I could even say anything, he crawled right into my lap. Curled up like he knew me. Like he’d done it before.
I froze.
People around us glanced over, but nobody said a word. The flight attendant walked by, smiled at him like it was sweet, and kept going.
I didn’t know what to do. My first instinct was to ask where his parents were, but he had already tucked his head under my arm, breathing slow like he was finally safe.
I scanned the rows around us, waiting for someone—anyone—to speak up. But nothing.
I held him the whole flight. No one came for him. No announcements. No panic. Just… silence.
And when we landed, and everyone stood to get their bags, I finally asked the woman across the aisle if she knew where his parents were.
She blinked at me and said,
“I thought you were his mom.”
That’s when the pit in my stomach really started to grow.
I stood up, holding his hand, and walked to the front of the plane with him, hoping someone would stop me—someone who knew him, someone who had noticed he was gone.
But no one did.
At the gate, I told the attendant what happened. Security came. They reviewed the passenger list. Checked the manifests. Every child on that flight was accounted for. Except him.
There was no ticket under his name. No matching adult. Nothing.
They took him gently. He cried when I let go of his hand.
And I’ve been waiting for answers ever since.
It’s been three weeks.
I check the news. I call the airport daily. They won’t tell me much. Just that child services took him in. That they’re still “investigating.”
But I can’t sleep.
Because sometimes I still feel that tiny hand tug at my sleeve in the dark. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I swear I hear him whisper:
“Mommy?”