And the young woman clinging possessively to his arm stopped walking too.
Because the flight attendant welcoming them aboard wasn’t a stranger.
It was me.
His wife.
My name is Valerie Carter.
I’d worked for an American airline for nine years. I’d flown to New York, Miami, Seattle, Los Angeles, Denver, and Cancun so many times that I could read a passenger’s mood before they even reached the jet bridge.
I was polite.
Quiet.
The kind of woman who didn’t need to raise her voice to prove she had strength.
My husband, Ryan Carter, always mistook that for weakness.
