Two years after saving a woman’s life at 35,000 feet, I found myself at rock bottom, struggling with hardship and grieving the loss of my mother. On Christmas Eve, there was an unexpected knock at the door, bringing a gift and a chance for a new beginning from a stranger I thought I would never see again.
Over the years as a flight attendant, I have seen all types of passengers — nervous first-timers, seasoned business travellers and excited tourists.
But there is one passenger I will never forget. Not because of her designer clothes or business class ticket, but because of what happened at 35,000 feet that day. Two years later, she changed my life in ways I could never have imagined.
Let me first tell you about my life. My basement flat was exactly what you’d expect for £600 a month in the city. Water stains adorned the ceiling like abstract art, and the radiator rattled all night as if someone were hitting it with a wrench.
But that was all I could afford at 26, after everything that had happened. The kitchen table served as both my workspace and dining table. In one corner stood a small single bed, its metal frame visible where the sheet had torn.
The walls were so thin that I could hear every step from the flat above, each one reminding me how far I had fallen from my former life.
I looked at the pile of unpaid bills on my folding table, each one reminding me how quickly life can go wrong. The debt collectors had started calling again. Three times today alone.
I picked up the phone, my finger hovering over my mother’s number out of habit, before remembering. Six months. It had been six months since I had anyone to call.
My neighbour’s TV blared through the wall, some cheerful Christmas film about family reunions and Christmas miracles. I turned up the radio to drown it out, but the Christmas carols felt like salt in an open wound.
‘Just keep breathing, Evie,’ I whispered to myself, my mum’s advice when things got tough. ‘One day at a time.’
The irony was not lost on me. BREATHE. That’s how this whole story began on that fateful flight.
‘Miss, please! Someone help her!’ a loud cry cut through the aisle.
The memory of that flight two years ago was still crystal clear. I was doing my usual checks in business class when I heard the panic in the man’s voice. Three rows ahead, an elderly woman was clutching her throat, her face turning an alarming shade of red.
‘She’s choking!’ another passenger shouted, partially rising from his seat.
My training kicked in instantly. I rushed over to her and stood behind her seat. Another flight attendant, Jenny, was already radioing for medical assistance on board.
‘Ma’am, I’m here to help. Can you breathe?’ I asked the woman.
She shook her head frantically, her eyes filled with fear. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into the armrest of the chair, and her knuckles turned white with tension.
‘I’ll help you breathe again. Try to stay calm.’
I hugged her torso, found the point just above her navel, and pushed up vigorously with all my strength. Nothing. Again. Nothing. On the third try, I heard a small breath.
A piece of chicken flew across the aisle, landing on the man’s newspaper. The woman bent over, breathing heavily. The entire cabin seemed to exhale at once.
‘It’s easier now,’ I reassured her, patting her back. ‘Just breathe slowly. Jenny, can you bring some water?’
The woman’s hands trembled as she smoothed her silk blouse. When she finally looked at me, her eyes were wet but warm. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly.
‘Thank you, dear. I’ll never forget this. I’m Mrs Peterson, and you just saved my life.’
I smiled, already moving to fetch her some water. ‘Just doing my job, Mrs Peterson. Try to take small sips.’
‘No, dear,’ she insisted, still holding my wrist. “Some things are more than just a job. I was so scared, and you were so calm. How can I thank you?”
‘The best reward is seeing you breathe normally again. Please drink some water and rest. I’ll check on you again soon.’
If I had known then how right she was that some things are more important than work, perhaps I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to return to my duties.
Life has a way of making you forget the good times when the bad ones start to destroy everything around you. After my mother’s diagnosis, everything else became secondary. I quit my job as a flight attendant to take care of her.
We sold everything — my car, my grandfather’s house in the suburbs, even my mother’s art collection. She was quite well known in local galleries, and her paintings sold for good money.
‘You don’t have to do this, Evie,’ my mother protested when I brought her my letter of resignation. ‘I can manage.’
‘How did you manage when I had pneumonia in third grade? Or when I broke my arm in high school?’ I kissed her on the forehead. ‘Let me take care of you for once.’
The last painting she sold was her favourite — a watercolour of me sitting at the kitchen window, drawing two birds building a nest in the maple tree outside.
She captured every detail, from the morning sun in my tousled hair to how I always bit my lip when I concentrated. It was the last painting she did before she fell ill.
‘Why did you draw me drawing birds?’ I asked her when she showed me the painting for the first time.
She smiled, gently touching the dried paint. ‘Because you’ve always been like those birds, dear. Always building something beautiful, despite all the difficulties in life.’
Soon we found luck on the internet. An anonymous buyer offered us a fortune, much more than we expected. Mum couldn’t believe her luck.
‘See, Evie? Even when everything seems dark, there’s always someone willing to help build a nest.’
Three weeks later, she was gone. The hospital room was quiet, except for the slowing beep of the monitor.
‘I’m sorry, baby,’ she whispered to me with her last words. ‘Be strong.’
The doctors said she didn’t feel any pain at the end. I hoped they were right.
Time slipped away like sand through my fingers. On Christmas Eve, I found myself alone in my basement, watching the shadows dance on the wall from the headlights of passing cars.
I hadn’t bothered to decorate. What was the point? The only Christmas card I received was from my landlord, reminding me that the rent was due on the first.
No one knew where I lived. I made sure it stayed that way. After my mother died, I couldn’t cope with the pitying looks, awkward conversations and painful questions about how I was ‘holding up’.
But then there was a loud knock at the door.
I approached cautiously, peeking through the peephole, and saw a man in an expensive suit holding a gift box with a perfect bow. His coat probably cost more than three months of my rent.
‘Can I help you?’ I called through the door.
‘Miss Evi? I have a delivery for you.’
I opened the door slightly, keeping the chain on. ‘A gift? For me?’
He smiled politely. ‘Yes, madam, it’s for you,’ he said, handing her the box. ‘There’s also an invitation inside. I assure you, everything will become clear very soon.’
The box was heavy for its size, wrapped in thick paper that rustled softly when I picked it up. I found an elegant cream-coloured envelope. But what lay beneath it made my heart skip a beat — my mother’s last painting. There I was, frozen forever in the past by our old kitchen window, painting birds in the spring.
‘Wait!’ I called out. ‘Who are you? Why are you returning this painting?’
The man looked up. ‘You’ll get your answers, don’t worry. My boss wants to meet you. Will you accept the invitation?’
I looked at the painting, then at him. ‘When?’
‘Right now, if you’re ready. The car is waiting.’
The car took me to a mansion that looked like something out of a Christmas film, with twinkling lights and wreaths on every window. The snow crunched under my old boots as the man led me down the path.
I held the painting tightly, feeling completely out of place.
Inside was a large staircase decorated with garlands, leading to a hall with a fireplace where a fire crackled merrily. And there, rising from her chair, was Mrs Peterson — the very woman I had saved on the flight two years ago.
‘Hello, Evie,’ she said softly. ‘It’s been a long time.’
I froze, holding the painting tightly. ‘Mrs Peterson?’
She gestured for me to sit down in the armchair by the fireplace. ‘I saw your mother’s work at the local gallery online,’ she explained. ‘When I saw the painting with you in it, I knew I had to buy it. Something about the way you painted those birds…’ She paused, her eyes clouding over. ‘It reminded me of my daughter.’
‘You bought my mother’s painting?’
She nodded. ‘I found out about your mother’s diagnosis and even spoke to the doctors,’ she continued, her voice trembling. ‘I offered them any amount of money to save her. But some things…’ She wiped away a tear. ‘Some things money can’t buy.’
‘How did you find me?’ I whispered.
‘I have my ways,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘I contacted the hospital and persuaded them to share your address with me, given the circumstances. I wanted to make sure you were taken care of, even if I couldn’t save your mother.’
‘Why did you go to such lengths for me?’
Mrs Peterson sat down next to me. ‘Because I lost my daughter to cancer last year. She was about your age.’ She gently touched the frame of the painting. ‘When I saw this work online — the last painting my mother sold to pay for her treatment — I knew I had to help. Even if it was too late.’
I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. ‘The money from this painting gave us three more weeks together.’
‘My daughter Rebecca loved art too,’ Mrs Peterson’s voice trembled. ‘She would have loved this painting. Its symbolism… building something together, even when everything seems destroyed.’
She hugged me, and we both cried, two strangers connected by loss and a moment at 35,000 feet.
‘Spend Christmas with me,’ she said finally. ‘No one should be alone at Christmas!’
The next morning, we sat in the sunny kitchen, sharing stories over coffee and homemade brownies. The kitchen smelled of vanilla and spices, warm and welcoming in a way my basement flat could never be.
‘Rebecca made these buns every Christmas,’ Mrs Peterson said, passing me another one. ‘She insisted on making them from scratch, even though I told her the ones from the shop were fine.’
‘My mum was the same when she made her Sunday pancakes,’ I smiled. ‘She said the secret was love.’
‘Your mother sounds like she was an amazing woman.’
‘She was. She taught art at the community centre, you know? Even when she was sick, she worried about her students missing class.’
Mrs Peterson nodded, understanding with a glance. ‘That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? Watching them worry about everyone else until the very end.’
I felt better because I had found someone who understood exactly what it meant to have such a huge void in your life. Someone who knew that grief doesn’t follow a schedule, and that some days are harder than others — and that’s okay.
‘Evi,’ said Mrs Peterson, setting down her cup of coffee. “I have a proposal for you. The family business needs a new personal assistant… someone I can trust. Someone with a quick mind and a kind heart.‘ She smiled. ’Do you know anyone who would be suitable? Perhaps someone named Evi?”
I looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely. Rebecca always said I worked too much. Maybe it’s time for someone to help me share the load.’ She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. ‘What do you say?’
Looking at her hopeful face, I felt something I hadn’t felt in months: a spark of possibility. Maybe Mum was right when she drew me looking at those birds. Maybe home really is what you build together, one little piece at a time.
‘Yes,’ I said, squeezing her hand in response. ‘Yes, I’d love that.’
As we hugged, I knew my life was about to change. This Christmas, I found my family again. And while nothing could fill the void my mother left behind, maybe with Mrs. Peterson’s help, I could build a new home… one that honours the past while giving hope for the future.
