I’m 65, and the last year hollowed me out. My daughter died after giving birth, and by sunrise I was a grandmother and a mother again. Her husband held the baby once, whispered something I couldn’t hear, set her back in the bassinet, and disappeared. He left a note that said I’d “know what to do.”

I named her Lily because my daughter had chosen it—simple, sweet, strong. At 3 a.m., when I rock her and whisper “Lily,” it feels like I’m borrowing my girl’s voice for one more minute. Money is tight. Sleep is rare. Some days I’m all bones and worry, counting bills by the light of the fridge and praying the formula stretches.

My oldest friend begged me to visit. “Bring the baby,” she said. “I’ll take a night shift. You need rest.” I bought the cheapest ticket and boarded with a diaper bag that weighed as much as regret. We squeezed into the back row. Lily whimpered, then wailed, the kind of wail that ricochets off aluminum. I tried everything—bottle, rocking, the lullaby I used to hum to her mother. People turned, sighed, glared. The man beside me pressed his fingers into his temples like he was suffering on principle.
“For God’s sake, shut that baby up,” he snapped finally, loud enough for three rows to hear. “If you can’t keep her quiet, move. Go stand in the galley. Lock yourself in the bathroom. Anywhere but here.”

“I’m trying,” I said, and it came out like a plea. My cheeks burned. I stood. Gathered the diaper bag. Lily screamed into my shoulder while the tears slid down my face.

“Ma’am?” a voice said, gentle as a hand on your elbow.