For nearly nine years, my husband, Tyler, had worked as a commercial airline pilot. He had flown thousands of miles, crossed countless cities, and safely carried passengers to destinations all over the country. To most people, he was simply the captain responsible for getting them where they needed to go.
But to our seven-year-old son, Mason, he was something much more extraordinary.
He was a hero.
Mason had grown up watching his father prepare for flights, checking his uniform before leaving the house, and listening to stories about the airports and cities he visited. Every time Tyler packed his suitcase, Mason would follow him around the house with a dozen questions.
“Are you flying a big plane today, Dad?”
“Will you be going really high in the sky?”
“Do the people on your plane know that you’re my daddy?”
Tyler always laughed at that last question.
“I suppose they will if you tell them,” he would reply, ruffling Mason’s hair.
