That day, I had to board a flight with my two-month-old son. My husband was away in Manchester, and we were flying to meet him. I had no one else to help—no family or friends nearby. The six-hour journey from London to Edinburgh felt like an eternity.
My little one, usually so quiet and content, was fussy—maybe from the cabin pressure, the noise, or just exhaustion. He wouldn’t settle, crying on and off, and I was clinging to my last shreds of patience, fighting back tears myself.
When the air hostess brought lunch, I barely had a chance to eat. My hands were full—feeding, nappy changes, rocking him to sleep. That’s just how it goes. I wasn’t complaining. But this time, the man beside me in a sharp suit looked like he was on important business. He seemed tired, irritated, sighing heavily and shooting us sideways glances, muttering under his breath. It only made things worse. I couldn’t even look at him without feeling guilty, knowing he was biting his tongue to keep from snapping.
I held it together until he turned to me and said something that left me stunned.
«Here, give him to me. I’ll hold him while you get some rest.»
I was speechless.
«Oh, no, thank you—I’m sorry for the disturbance—»
«Don’t worry about it,» he said. «I’m a doctor. A paediatrician. Got two of my own at home. I know how it is. Flying’s tough on little ones. Go on, it’s alright.»
Carefully, I handed over my son. He held him with such calm assurance, and for the first time in hours, the crying stopped. My boy drifted off in his arms.
I shut my eyes and slept—a solid hour, the best I’d had all day.
We didn’t speak much after that. But as the plane began its descent, he gently passed my son back and said, «You’re doing brilliantly. Don’t ever doubt that.»
I won’t forget those words. Not for a long time.