Usually I love airplane flights. I like the trays of food and the fact that I get to watch as much TV as I want. Dad always takes the aisle seat, so he can stretch his legs. Mom sits in the middle, so I can look out the window. But today it’s just the two of us, and when we walk down the aisle to our row number, there’s already a woman sitting by the window.

“Where do you want to sit, middle or aisle?” Mom asks.

I shrug. “I don’t care.”

She gives me a long look. “I guess you’re just tired,” she says, but I don’t feel tired—I just don’t feel like talking. Which is probably why Mom introduces herself to that woman. Her face is very suntanned, skinny, and wrinkled; she wears a lot of makeup.

“I’m Jenny,” Mom says, and the woman says, “Everyone calls me Bells.”

There’s a public announcement: the captain is talking, telling us about the flight time and the weather in Austin; and after it ends, nobody says anything for a minute, and I think, Maybe it’s okay—they won’t get into a conversation, I can just sit here with my mom, but then the woman says, “You folks from Texas?”

“I am,” Mom tells her, and lowers her voice. “He isn’t. I’ve been living in New York for fifteen years. You get to a point in your life where you just . . . want to go home.”

I have a book open in my lap, but that doesn’t stop me from listening.

“You haven’t lost your accent,” Bells says.

“I guess that’s one thing I haven’t lost.” Mom smiles, in a way I don’t like. She only does it for women.

The plane rolls into position at the head of the runaway, and then it starts revving its engines—going faster and faster, and getting louder and louder. When it finally lifts into the air, the cabin goes suddenly quiet. Mom gives me a piece of chewing gum, and I put it in my mouth. My ears feel cloggy. The FASTEN SEAT BELT sign blinks off, and I press the button on my armrest and push the chair back.

Bells says, “You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve just become a grandmother.” She’s the kind of person who can start a conversation just by saying stuff; she doesn’t need an invitation. Why shouldn’t I believe it? She looks old. “That’s something that nothing really prepares you for,” Bells goes on. Her accent sounds like my mom’s—she’s from Texas, too. They seem to have a lot to say to each other.

“Is he all right?” Bells asks after a while. “He seems kind of quiet. He hasn’t turned a page of that book in about ten minutes.”

“He’s all right,” Mom says. “He’s just got a lot on his plate. I’m sorry.” She’s crying a little, and turns her head away from the lady, toward me. I can see her face all scrunched up—she doesn’t want me to see her either, so she sniffs and puts on a smile and turns back. “I guess we both do. It just constantly amazes me . . . how kids can just . . . put up with what you dump on them. Without complaining. Don’t get me wrong, if I tell him to put his cereal bowl in the dishwasher, this can be, like . . . a half-hour argument. But then real stuff happens, and they’re like, Okay. He’s my little champion guy.”