Be my brother for a week

I became a mother at eighteen. In January 2004, right after the New Year, Art, my sixteen-year-old son, and I flew to Goa, India. I was thirty-three, freshly out of a long relationship that had ended the previous fall, and badly in need of something to look at other than my own thoughts.

A year earlier, I had moved to Moscow and taken a mid-level role in a large international company, which opened the door to travel. I loved it and embraced every chance to see the world. This trip had another purpose too: to show my son something beyond our usual European routes.

As always, I studied the destination before the trip. I learned that Goa had once been a Portuguese colony on India’s Arabian Sea coast. There was North Goa, known for its wild nightlife; South Goa, with its endless beaches and luxury hotels; and central Goa, near the state capital, Panaji. I chose the latter.

The direct flight from Moscow to Goa took about eight hours, roughly the same as the flight from Moscow to New York. We boarded and took off. During the climb, a thought came to me, unusual enough that I needed a careful way to say it.

When the flight attendants began serving drinks, I turned to Art.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

He looked at me with the mild suspicion of a teenager who has learned that favors requested this carefully are rarely simple.

“We’re going away for a week, and I really need a reset after everything that’s happened.”

I paused, searching for the right words. He kept nodding, encouraging me to continue.

“You’re already taller than me, and I still look pretty young… So, every time people react with, ‘Oh my God, that’s your son?!’ — it feels a bit awkward.”

Art raised an eyebrow.

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

I hesitated, then said it,

“What if — just for this trip — we introduced ourselves as brother and sister? Would you mind?”

He grinned. “Fine by me.”

I exhaled, relieved I didn’t have to explain further. The truth was simple: I hoped for a harmless vacation flirt, something to pull me out of my sadness and restore a bit of confidence.

When the flight attendant reached our row, I ordered a beer. Then she turned to Art.

"I'll join," he said pleasantly. "A beer, please."

I nearly choked. I looked at him, ready to object, already opening my mouth when he smiled triumphantly and added,

"Remember, sister, our parents gave money to both of us."

I lost my voice. He got his beer.

For the next half hour, I sat in silence, watching an internal tug-of-war between a mother and a woman who wanted a little freedom. In the end, the mother won. I realized I had no idea what other clever moves my son might come up with, and I didn’t want to find myself trapped in my own story. And if I’m honest, I also felt a quiet shame. Why was I afraid to be seen as a young mother?

When I finally felt calm and certain, I turned to him.

“You know what? That was a bad idea — this brother-and-sister game. I actually like being your mother. Let’s cancel it.”

He looked at me and broke into the widest grin.

“As you wish, Mom.”

It turned out to be a wonderful trip. Maybe because it was our first time traveling just the two of us. Or maybe because of the insights that stayed with me, the kind I still carry.

You can read about those in my book, Parenting: Return on Intention. But that story starts here, at thirty thousand feet, with a beer and a very clever sixteen-year-old who knew exactly what he was doing.

With intention,

Nadia Granski