The flight attendant watched about thirty seconds of the video before her expression hardened. She asked him for his boarding pass, then told him there was an open middle seat in the last row, beside the lavatory. He argued. She didn’t. He muttered something about my yarn on his way. When he finally stomped off, three passengers applauded, and she quietly brought me a cup of tea and a second pillow.

For the rest of the flight, I knitted with room to spare. When we landed, I folded the baby blanket over my arm and walked out to meet my daughter, Erin, at baggage claim. Her husband, Mark, stood beside her holding the car seat, grinning. “Mom,” he said, “my dad was on your flight too. He’s finally meeting her today.” Then I turned around. The man in the quarter-zip was walking toward us.

Mark’s father had missed the wedding for a business trip, so we had never met. He recognized me the same second I recognized him. His face went from red to white. For a long moment, nobody spoke. Then he looked at his granddaughter asleep in the car seat, looked at the blanket on my arm, and said quietly, “I owe you an apology. A real one.” He gave it, right there by carousel four, in front of his son.

Erin never let either of us forget it, but it turned out to be the best thing that could have happened. He was on his best behavior all week. He carried my bags, took the lumpy couch, and gave me the rocking chair every single night. On our last evening, I finished the blanket and tucked it around the baby. He looked at it and laughed. “Takes up the whole crib,” he said. “I know,” I told him. “She’s using the space.”