Hers Before Mine

A moment on a plane that gutted me

“Mom, yours before hers.”

The flight attendant said it casually, kindly.

She paused at our row during the safety instructions, looked directly at me, and repeated the same line I’ve heard a dozen times in my life. But this time it was personal.

“Mom, yours before hers.”

I nodded. I swallowed hard. And instantly, a lump rose in the back of my throat.

Because the truth? No. Not a chance. Not even for a second.

In the event of a real emergency, I will help my daughter first. I will secure her oxygen mask before mine. I will cover her mouth and her nose and make sure she can breathe. And if it costs me mine, I won’t even notice.

She is my only living child after three I never got to bring home. She is the dream I carried, the miracle I almost didn’t believe would come true. I’ve lost too much. I know the weight of that kind of grief. I couldn’t survive it again.

So yeah, I nodded. But I didn’t mean it.

And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since that flight several weeks ago.

Not because I’m trying to make some grand statement about motherhood. But because in that moment, everything I’ve ever felt about love and loss and the fragility of life condensed into one small instruction, and my quiet, internal rebellion against it.

I know the science. I know why the rule exists. But I also know my own heart.

And if the time ever came, my daughter would get the first breath.

Every time.