Page 11 of Where Broken Wings Fly

I grin at her, despite the curious looks sent our way by onlookers. “We did it, baby.”

“Did what?”

Staring deep into her frost-bitten eyes lit with the innocence of childhood, I feel tears soak into my cheeks. “We made it.”

“On our adventure?”

“Yes. This is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

With a squeal, she throws herself into my arms for a hug. If I could, I’d spin her around me and celebrate loud enough for the whole country to hear.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” someone calls out.

Fuck!

Freezing on the spot, I shove Arianna behind me and square my shoulders. It’s just an airport attendant, holding my dropped duffel bag in her hands.

“You dropped your bag,” she explains with a smile.

“Thank y-you,” I stammer.

Breathe. Act normal.

“You need to go inside and head through security. Are you okay? Do you need a hand with anything?”

“No, we’re fine. Come on, munchkin.”

Snatching my bag back, I grip Arianna’s hand tight and we race across the airstrip as fast as my numerous injuries will allow. Her small legs can hardly keep up.

Panic is riding me hard. All I can hear are the faceless staff that have called me ma’am for the past decade, averting their eyes and ignoring the abuse.

Running on autopilot through the passport checks, bags searches and a terrifying wait at customs, we make it to the arrivals lounge with no hiccups.

I nearly fainted when security frowned at our fake identification, before it was green-lighted by the system. I paid a small fortune for those fraudulent passports.

It took nearly two years of stealing petty cash here and there, poking into Mr Sanchez’s affairs to secretly gather the money without him realising. There were several close calls.

Assessing the numerous CCTV cameras and police officers milling about the busy airport, I struggle to lift Arianna up, holding her on my hip for my own peace of mind.

She barely weighs a thing. My first priority is getting some meat on her bones, since neither of us has to suffer the consequences of disobedience anymore.

“Mummy.” Her head slumps onto my shoulder. “I’m so tired.”

I stroke her tangled hair, ignoring the flare of pain her weight causes. “Go to sleep. I’m going to find a taxi. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

“Where are we going?”

Running through my mental checklist, I nod to myself. “We’ll find a cheap hotel, somewhere to sleep for the night.”

“One with ice cream?”

“We’ll find some. I know I promised.”

“I thought we were going home?” she mumbles.

“Soon,” I lie easily.

I’ve had to figure this parenting thing out alone. Rule number one? Don’t scare your damn kids with the truth. She doesn’t need to know that we don’t have a home.

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