Franklin nodded and pointed to another picture. “Is that your grandchild?”

“No, that’s my son — and he’s actually the reason I’m on this flight,” Stella said.

“You’re going to visit him?”

“No, this is the only way I can be near him,” she answered. “Remember when I mentioned my financial struggles? When I was in my 30s, I became pregnant. My boyfriend left, and I had no one to support me. My mother had already passed away from dementia. I loved my baby, but I couldn’t give him a proper life, so I placed him for adoption.”

“Did you find each other later?” Franklin asked.

“I tried. I found him through a DNA website. A neighbor’s child helped me send him an email. His name is Josh. He replied once, saying he was fine and didn’t need me. I sent several more emails asking for forgiveness, but he never responded again.”

“Then why are you on this flight if he doesn’t want to see you?”

“Because he’s the pilot. Today is his birthday — January 22, 1973. I’m getting older, and I don’t know how much time I have left. I just wanted to be close to him on at least one of his birthdays. This is the only way I can.”

Later, as the plane prepared to land in New York, the pilot spoke over the intercom:
“And I’d like everyone to welcome my birth mother, who is flying with me for the first time. Hi, Mom. Please wait for me after we land.”

Tears filled Stella’s eyes. When the plane stopped, the pilot—her son, John—rushed out of the cockpit to embrace her. The passengers and crew applauded as they reunited.

John whispered that he was thankful for the sacrifice she had made. Stella told him she had no regrets, and there was nothing to forgive.