Val walked into the bathroom, grabbed a small plastic wrapper from her purse, and put it in my hands.
“Keep this in your backpack, Leo,” Val said. “Just in case it happens when you are traveling.”
I did. I kept it in the backpack for weeks, thinking I was fully prepared.
I did not open the package. I did not read the label.
I did not know there was a difference between a panty liner and a menstrual pad. To me, they were the same thing.
I sat in seat 14B, watching the flight attendants push the beverage cart down the aisle.
5 minutes passed. Then 10 minutes.
I started to feel a small flutter of worry.
Then, the lead flight attendant, a warm-faced woman named Sarah, left her cart and walked toward my row.
She stopped next to my seat. She leaned down close, her expression serious but kind.
“Sir, your daughter in the restroom asked if you have an actual pad,” she whispered.
I blinked, confused.
“I just gave her one,” I replied quietly.
Sarah gave me a sympathetic look.
“The item you gave her was a panty liner, sir,” she explained. “It is too thin. Do you have anything else in your luggage?”
A cold wave of panic washed over my chest. My hands started to sweat.
“I do not have anything else,” I said, my voice cracking.
I felt a sudden, heavy shame. I was her father, her only protector, and I had failed her at the most vulnerable moment of her young life.
I started tearing through my backpack, dumping cords and notebooks onto my lap, hoping I had missed something. There was nothing.
Sarah told me that the plane’s emergency first-aid kit was out of supplies due to a restocking error in Chicago.
I sat there, my face burning, completely helpless.
Then, I felt a soft tap on my shoulder.
I turned around. The woman sitting in seat 15B, an older lady with silver hair and kind eyes, was leaning forward.
She had a small, zippered floral cosmetic bag in her hand.
“Here, give her this,” she whispered, sliding the makeup bag into my hands.
I stared at the bag, then at her.
“And do not worry. You are doing a great job, Dad.”
