Four weeks after losing my 38-year-old husband, Dean, to cancer, I boarded a plane with our eight-year-old daughter, Hallie, and five-month-old son, Owen. I was exhausted, grieving, and simply trying to reach my mother’s home, where I hoped we could begin finding our footing again. The woman seated beside me seemed irritated by Owen before the plane even left the ground.
Two hours into the flight, Owen became hungry. I covered myself and began breastfeeding him, but the woman loudly complained, telling me I should feed him in the bathroom and questioning what kind of mother would make other passengers uncomfortable. Her words cut deeper than she could have known. I was barely holding myself together when Hallie suddenly offered to switch seats with me. As she sat beside the woman, she noticed a photograph the stranger had dropped. Then Hallie asked her one simple question that changed everything.
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