The flight attendant returns with my champagne in a real glass flute, and we chitchat for a moment about my trip. She wonders if I’m traveling on business, and when I tell her this is a vacation, she immediately wants to know who I’m going with.

“No one. I’m on my own,” I answer, sipping madly at the champagne, trying to get it down before we push away from the gate.

“You’re not married?” she asks.

“Divorced.”

“Kids?”

“Two. Nine-year-old boy. Five-year-old girl.”

“Where are they now?”

“With their dad.”

The flight attendant nods, pats my shoulder, and moves on. I distract myself by watching passengers board, including a family of four trying to settle into their seats in first class.

The children are excited, and they’re talking a mile a minute, asking endless questions as the mother tries to get them buckled into their seats. The father is already seated, and he’s pulling out his newspapers, drinking his mai tai, while the mother crouches next to the kids, scrambling to get them organized, pulling out a variety of Beanie Babies, blankets, coloring books, and games.

The family reminds me of us before the divorce. The husband could be Daniel immersed in his Wall Street Journal with his cocktail at his elbow. The kids could be William and Jessica at a younger age. And I could be the flushed, frazzled woman kneeling in the aisle, tucking loose bits of hair behind my ear as I struggle to get everything taken care of before I’m forced to my own seat for takeoff.

I feel a little pang but quickly suppress it. No bad feelings, no sad feelings, no recriminations. I’m going to enjoy this trip. I really am.

It’s not long now until the cabin door closes and the flight attendants walk down the aisle collecting glasses and napkins for takeoff. The jet has pushed back from the gate at Sea-Tac, and we lumber slowly toward the runway. I feel a few butterflies in my stomach. This is crazy. It’s been so long since I went anywhere on my own. I’m scared and exhilarated and flying in first class. I should be happy. I want to be happy. But I also suddenly miss the kids.

The captain announces we’re next in line for takeoff. I grip the armrest in anticipation. There’s a momentary pause, and then we’re moving, faster and faster, and the jet vibrates, a powerful shake as wheels rumble and engines roar, and we’re hurtling toward the end of the runway and finally up, surging up.

We’re off.

I’m off.

Six hours later, we touch down. The landing is so smooth that I barely feel a bump, and we deplane quickly, first class exiting first.