Someday, take Lily back there.
Inside my carry-on was a small container I had carefully packed before sunrise.
I was taking Cora back to the ocean.
Those first-class tickets had taken nearly two years to afford.
A coffee can sat on top of our refrigerator with “Mama’s Beach Fund” written across it in Lily’s handwriting.
Some weeks I put in twenty dollars. Other weeks, only a few.
When we boarded and Lily saw the larger seats, her face lit up.
“Daddy, are these really ours?”
“They are.”
For ten minutes, I felt like I had finally kept my promise.
I watched Lily run her hand over the leather armrest like it was something in a museum.
I watched her find the little button that reclined the seat and gasp.
Two years of twenty-dollar weeks, of skipped lunches I didn’t tell her about, of a coffee can on the refrigerator, and for ten minutes it had bought my daughter the feeling of being someone whose comfort mattered.
