What was I supposed to do?
Was there really no other way?
Wait.
The reason I'd been thrown into that psychiatric facility last time was that no one besides me could prove Amy had ever been on the plane.
So this time, all I had to do was make sure there was evidence she'd boarded with me.
The second the thought hit, I pulled out my phone. I linked my arm through Amy's as we walked toward the gate, and I started taking photos of the two of us like a man possessed.
From the ticket check to boarding, to settling into my seat, to the cabin doors closing, I documented every single step.
Then I posted a nine-photo grid of us together on Instagram.
Caption: "Boarded! Taking the girlfriend home to meet the family."
The likes and well-wishes poured in almost instantly:
"So sweet! Wishing you both the best!"
"Wow, finally meeting the parents! Congrats!!"
"Safe travels—I'm already looking forward to the wedding reception."
To be extra safe, I had Amy and me pose together holding up our boarding passes, and sent that photo to the family group chat.
"Mom, Dad—Amy and I are on the plane. We land in three hours."