Neither parent earned a large salary.
But they worked hard.
Paid their bills.
And raised their daughter to believe that talent meant very little without discipline.
Her father loved aviation.
Not glamorous aviation.
Not luxury lounges or private jets.
He loved the ordinary systems that allowed hundreds of people to travel safely.
The carts moving luggage across the ramp.
The ground crews communicating through radios.
The mechanics inspecting aircraft.
The dispatchers coordinating departures.
And the thousands of small procedures passengers rarely noticed.
When his daughter was little, he sometimes took her to the airport's public observation area on his days off.
They watched planes taxi.
He explained why ground vehicles had marked routes.
Why a departure might be delayed even when the weather was clear.
Why mechanics documented repairs.
And why nobody, no matter how important, should skip a safety procedure.
One summer afternoon, when the girl was eleven, she pointed toward a large aircraft preparing to depart.
"Do you think I could fly on one of those someday?"
Her father smiled.
"Of course."
She looked toward him.
"First class?"
He laughed.
"If you save your money."
She grinned.
Then asked a different question.
"Do you think I could own one?"
He looked surprised.
"A plane?"
She nodded.
Then pointed toward the terminal.
"Or maybe the whole airline."
Her father laughed so hard that he nearly spilled his coffee.
But when he saw her expression, he became serious.
She was not joking.
She was staring toward the aircraft with an intensity he recognized.
The same expression she wore when solving a mathematics problem or taking apart an old computer.
He placed one hand on her shoulder.
"Well, sweetheart, that's a pretty big dream."
She nodded.
"I know."
He looked toward the runway.
Then said something she never forgot.
"Big dreams are fine."
He paused.
"Just remember the people loading the bags when you reach the front office."
She frowned.
"Why?"