The flight was uneventful, wrapped in that soft, mechanical hum that usually makes time feel suspended. I gazed out the window, letting my mind wander through harmless thoughts—unfinished work tasks, what we still needed to unpack in our new house, the quiet satisfaction of believing life was finally settling into place.
Then a voice drifted forward from a few rows behind me.
A woman was speaking easily, almost lazily, about a recent weekend in Europe. She laughed as she mentioned traveling with someone named Phil. I barely reacted at first. Phil is a common name. I told myself that immediately.
But my stomach tightened anyway.
My husband’s name is Phil.
And he had just returned from Europe two days earlier.
I tried to shake it off, forcing my attention back to the clouds outside the window. Coincidences happen, I told myself. This was nothing. But the conversation didn’t stop—it deepened.
