On this day I watch a plane fly across an empty sky. Not so many planes in our skies these days, after the pandemic you see. But it reminded me, brought me back to that day.

Our plan to take the early evening flight from Borneo to Kuala Lumper had worked. By the time we boarded the midnight flight from KL to Amsterdam, our three children were ready to go to sleep. My husband and I changed them into their pjs and tried to settle them. Ever hopeful that we could snatch moments of sleep ourselves over the following twelve hours.

After years of travelling, we felt we’d honed it to a fine art but there was always the unexpected. We had rucksacks crammed with food, toys, books, and spare sets of clothes for all of us – either in case of the dreaded vomit or the delay or even loss of one of our carefully packed suitcases. Then again, after all that, often a spoon or an inflight magazine would prove to be the best distraction. Books? Did I say books? Ah, they were for the children. We’d learnt not to bother bringing books for ourselves. Plane travel with three little ones, five and under, meant being on ‘duty’ every minute. The snores from our fellow passengers were a constant reminder of the need for us to keep everything peaceful.

Arriving in Schiphol, the airport was calm, ordered and very, very busy. It was so exciting to hear all the different languages and accents. Another game of patience ensued. Waiting for our final flight.

I boarded with the children myself this time. My husband was staying for work. At the plane door I left the buggy, still carrying my youngest one in the front carrier, I ushered the two older ones into their seats. Thank goodness we were all in one row. Sliding off my rucksack, I began to sort out what we’d need for the flight when I heard a voice behind me.

‘Would you like me to hold the wee one while you get sorted?’

I could cry, even to this day, as I write this. To hear that offer of help and, said in a broad Scottish accent. I knew I was nearly home.

Sareen McLay