I’ve always been obsessed with the sky. Growing up in an orphanage, the only link to my past was a crinkled photo of me as a child in a cockpit, smiling with a man wearing a pilot’s cap and a large birthmark. I spent 20 years believing he was my father.
That photo was my anchor through flight school—through failures, long shifts, and empty savings. Every time I doubted myself, I studied it like a map.
At 27, I finally became a captain. On my first flight, a bang from first class sent me running. A man was choking. I performed the Heimlich, and when he gasped in relief, I froze. The birthmark stretched across his face.
“Dad?” I whispered.
He shook his head. “No. But I know exactly who you are, Robert. That’s why I’m on your flight.”
He had known my parents, flown with my father, and watched my life from afar. He hadn’t come for me because he had no roots, no stability—just flying.
I realized then: I didn’t become a pilot for him. I became one for me. That photo gave me a dream, but I made it real through hard work. I left it with him and returned to the cockpit, finally claiming my own life.