She had intended to post something about turning thirty-five. Something polished and encouraging, perhaps a few words about perseverance and chasing dreams.
Instead, she deleted the draft.
She began again.
She wrote about the loneliness of hotel rooms, the missed celebrations, and the strange feeling of being surrounded by people all day while sometimes longing for someone who knew her beyond her uniform.
She wrote that she was proud of her career, but that pride did not make her immune to loneliness.
She wrote that women should not have to pretend their sacrifices never hurt in order to prove that their ambitions are worth pursuing.
And then she wrote about Sophie.
She didn’t share the child’s name or any identifying details. She simply described the drawing and the message written beneath the airplane.
When Elena finished, she read the words twice.
They were more honest than anything she had posted before.
