My dad has given me the best gift anyone has ever given me. He

Host: The airport terminal shimmered with late afternoon light — the kind that turns glass walls into mirrors and people into silhouettes of purpose. The loudspeaker murmured flight numbers in its cold, rehearsed voice. Children clutched toys, couples held hands too tightly, and somewhere between departures and arrivals, time itself seemed to hesitate.

Jack sat by the window, a cup of coffee cooling in his hands. His eyes were distant, focused on the runways beyond — where silver planes rose into a sky too wide to measure. Across from him, Jeeny scrolled through her phone, earbuds hanging loose around her neck. The hum of the terminal was a song neither of them quite heard anymore.

From a TV mounted above the gate came a soft voice — an interview snippet drifting through the noise:
"My dad has given me the best gift anyone has ever given me. He gave me wings to fly." — Adria Arjona

Jeeny looked up. Jack didn’t.

Jeeny: “That’s a beautiful quote.”

Jack: “Yeah. Sounds like something people say when their life worked out.”

Jeeny: “Or when they finally understood it did.”

Jack: “You really think anyone gives you wings? You earn them — usually by falling.”

Jeeny: “Not always. Sometimes someone just… teaches you you’re allowed to jump.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, sliding across the floor, cutting their faces into halves — one lit by warmth, the other shadowed by memory.

Jack: “My father never gave me wings. He gave me rules. A checklist. How to walk, how to talk, how to hide disappointment behind a handshake.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that was his version of wings — structure before flight.”

Jack: “No. That was a leash.”

Jeeny: “You sure you didn’t just forget how to untie it?”

Host: The announcement chime rang above them. A flight to Madrid. Another to Buenos Aires. Jeeny’s eyes followed the trail of a plane rising through the sky, its white streak cutting through the blue like a memory refusing to fade.

Jeeny: “When Adria said that, she wasn’t talking about money or success. She meant freedom. The kind that comes from someone believing in you before you believe in yourself.”

Jack: “Then maybe belief’s overrated. My father believed in me — as long as I became the version of me he already decided on.”

Jeeny: “That’s not belief. That’s ownership.”

Jack: “Same thing, where I come from.”

Host: A small child ran past, laughing, arms outstretched — pretending to fly. Jack’s eyes softened for a moment as he watched her, but his mouth stayed tight, his voice low.

Jack: “You know what he used to say? ‘The world doesn’t care if you can dream, Jack. It only cares if you can deliver.’”

Jeeny: “And you believed him?”

Jack: “I had to.”

Jeeny: “And did it make you happy?”

Jack: “It made me responsible.”

Jeeny: “That’s not the same thing.”

Host: The gate attendant called for boarding — not their flight, but someone else’s. The line of passengers moved like a slow river, each person clutching something precious or pretending not to care.

Jeeny: “My father used to take me to the pier every Sunday. He’d make me close my eyes, spread my arms, and feel the wind. He’d say, ‘The world’s big, Jeeny. Don’t ever let anyone make you small.’”

Jack: “Sounds poetic.”

Jeeny: “It was. He didn’t have money. But he gave me permission to exist on my own terms. That’s wings, Jack — not freedom without gravity, but courage without permission.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe that’s what I missed. My dad gave me ambition, not courage.”

Jeeny: “Ambition makes you move. Courage tells you where to go.”

Host: A plane roared overhead, rattling the windows. The sound filled the space between their words — loud, unignorable, alive. Jack looked down at his reflection in the window, distorted by sunlight and motion.

Jack: “You ever think some people aren’t meant to fly? Some of us just hold the ladder.”

Jeeny: “Everyone’s meant to fly. Some just forget they have wings.”

Jack: “And you? You still have yours?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Tattered, maybe. But they work.”

Jack: “How do you keep them from breaking?”

Jeeny: “By using them.”

Host: The boarding announcement sounded again — this time for their flight. The waiting crowd began to shuffle forward. Jeeny stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Jack stayed seated, still staring at the planes outside.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe your father didn’t fail you. Maybe he just gave you different wings — heavier ones. Made for storms, not sunlight.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I wish he’d told me how to use them.”

Jeeny: “That’s not a parent’s job, Jack. They just hand them to you. The rest — that’s your flight to take.”

Host: The final call echoed through the gate. Jeeny turned to him, waiting. For once, Jack didn’t argue. He stood, picked up his coat, and looked at her — something like understanding softening his edges.

Jack: “You know, I never thanked him. I think I was too busy proving I could fly higher than he ever did.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he knew you would.”

Jack: “You really think so?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Most fathers don’t give wings to keep you close. They give them so you can leave.”

Host: The words landed softly, like a truth he’d been running from his whole life. He looked out the window one last time — a jet lifting into the amber sky, cutting through the clouds like forgiveness.

He smiled — faint, but genuine.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Let’s fly.”

Jeeny: “That’s the spirit.”

Host: They walked toward the gate. The line had thinned. The light outside shifted — the last of the sun dipping below the horizon, painting the runway in gold.

As they boarded, Jack glanced back once more — at the vastness, the motion, the distance. The world looked less like something to conquer, and more like something to join.

And in that quiet, he finally understood what Adria Arjona meant —
that love isn’t the cage or the push;
it’s the gentle whisper that says: Go.

The plane rose, slow and steady, wings trembling against the wind.
Jack closed his eyes. For the first time, he didn’t feel fear.

Just flight.