• I figured her to be in her 70s, maybe older. Heading to a funeral, for which she would likely be late.

    We were on the same plane. And it was delayed. A lot.

    So we ended up chatting. A lot. About FOX News. She loves it. About the harsh e-mails I sometimes read. She hates that.

    Then we discussed her son, the one whose funeral she was going to. He was 45, apparently the victim of a massive heart attack.

    "He had so much to live for," she said. He had started his own business. Things were looking good. He worked hard. A lot of hours. A lot of time away from his family. And then, poof, gone, just like that.

    "He always called me," she said, "bought me one of those bracelet things, the ones that you can call for help if you've fallen down and you're all alone." She wishes her son had one. "It's so ironic," she tells me. "He's gone. And I'm here." She tells me her husband died some time back.

    I didn't get into details, but she seemed pretty much alone now, wondering now, how she survives all her loved ones leaving her now. "Life is cruel, Mr. Cavuto," she tells me. I tell her I'm sorry. What else can I say?

    She only offers this advice. "Work hard, but call home. Always call home." "I will," I assure her. "Good," she says, "because, you never know."

    And then we boarded the plane. She to a funeral. Me, to some deep thoughts.

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