Jade

She’d worn heels on her first flight to Europe. The trainers had told her to bring an extra pair of low-heeled shoes she could change into while she worked, that she would regret it if she didn’t. But she was green and naïve and didn’t follow their advice.

They’d advised her to get luggage “wheels” too. Pshaw, she thought, I don’t need those. My flight bag’s not that heavy. Then she’d had to pack for Italy. She’d wondered at the time if her feet would ever recover from walking for what seemed like miles through airports, lugging her flight bag and suitcase, while her non-sympathetic, senior crew practically sprinted towards the far-off exit.

That was the first of many lessons she learned while a flight attendant. Most were practical. But the biggest lesson was a deeper one. It involved the loss of innocence and the beginning of seeing the world through “jaded” eyes.

Everyone goes through this. It’s called growing up. She just did most of hers flying the friendly skies.

So it was, years later, she was trudging wearily off the plane. Her feet hurt, her legs hurt. She had tomato juice in her shoes and dried vomit on her uniform and she had been hit on by enough married men to convince her that most of them truly believed they were the sexiest man alive and the mile high club was something all women aspired to. It had been one of those days.

He was waiting for her. And as she walked into his arms, she knew that this, this was a man of integrity, a man who deserved the belief in mankind she’d thought she’d lost. And she thanks God for him every day.