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My grandmother was not a gambler. That’s what I would have told you before she died, and that’s what I would have believed with my whole chest. She was a retired librarian who spent her days tending to her rose bushes, watching Jeopardy, and sending me articles about bird flu clipped from the local newspaper. She drove a beige sedan exactly five miles under the speed limit and had never, to my knowledge, done anything more reckless than eat a second slice of pie at Thanksgiving. So when I was cleaning out her apartment last spring — a task my mother had been avoiding for six months because grief is weird like that — I was not prepared to find what I found. It was tucked behind her winter sweaters in the bottom drawer of her dresser. A small black notebook, the kind you can buy at the drugstore for two dollars, with a worn elastic band holding it shut. I almost didn’t open it. I thought it might be private, full of thoughts she never shared or memories she never spoke aloud. But curiosity got the better of me, as it always does, and I slid the band off and opened to the first page. What I saw made me sit down on her bed so fast I nearly knocked over the lamp. Handwritten notes. Dozens of them. Dates, usernames, game titles, strategies. Columns of numbers — deposits, withdrawals, wins, losses. And in the margins, little comments in her neat, looping cursive. “Bad beat, but fun.” “The dealer was very kind tonight.” “Won enough for a new rose bush!” My grandmother. My sweet, quiet, bird-flu-warning grandmother. Had been playing online casino games for years. Years. I flipped through the notebook with a kind of stunned reverence. The first entry was dated over four years ago. She had started with ten dollars. Ten dollars. And over the course of months and then years, she had developed an entire system. She played only three games — blackjack, a specific slots game called something about flamingos, and a European roulette table she referred to as “my lucky wheel.” She never deposited more than fifty dollars at a time, and she always, always withdrew her winnings at the end of each session. Her notes were meticulous. She tracked which dealers were luckiest, which times of day had the best payout rates, which betting patterns minimized her losses. It was like reading a scientist’s field notes, if the scientist had been a seventy-four-year-old widow who smelled like rose water and optimism. The last entry was from two weeks before she died. She had won a hundred and forty dollars on the flamingo slot. Her note read: “This one’s for Sophie’s graduation.” Sophie was me. I had graduated from community college the previous year, and she had sent me a card with fifty dollars inside — fifty dollars I had assumed came from her fixed income, a sacrifice she had made because she loved me. But no. It had come from a slot machine with dancing pink birds on the screen. I closed the notebook and just sat there for a long time. The apartment was quiet, the way only a dead person’s home can be quiet. The afternoon light slanted through the lace curtains she’d had since the 1980s, and I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the same refrigerator where she’d kept the lemon bars she made every Christmas. I felt like I had discovered a secret door in a house I’d lived in my whole life. My grandmother, who I thought I knew completely, had been hiding a whole other version of herself. A version who liked the thrill of the spin, who stayed up late chatting with Romanian dealers, who treated the house edge like a puzzle to be solved rather than a wall to be feared. I did something that night that I still can’t fully explain. I opened my laptop and typed in the URL she had written on the inside cover of her notebook — https://vavada.solutions/. I didn’t even know she knew how to use a computer, let alone navigate an online casino. But there it was, the same site she had played on for four years, the same green felt and spinning wheels she had described in her careful, cursive notes. I created an account in her honor, using her birthday as my password because it felt right. And then I deposited fifty dollars — her limit, her rule — and started playing. I played the flamingo slot first, because it felt like visiting a place she had loved. The music was ridiculous, all steel drums and chirping sound effects, but I didn’t care. I watched the reels spin and thought about her sitting in this same apartment, in this same chair maybe, doing the exact same thing. Did she laugh when she won? Did she sigh when she lost? Did she talk to the screen like I do, muttering encouragement to the little digital birds? I lost twenty dollars in the first ten minutes. I almost stopped. But then I remembered her notebook, the way she tracked her losses alongside her wins, never getting too high or too low. She treated gambling like gardening — you plant the seeds, you wait, you accept that some of them won’t grow. So I kept playing. I switched to blackjack, her other favorite. I’m not good at blackjack. I never have been. But I followed her notes — her strategies, her betting patterns, her insistence on never splitting eights. And somehow, miraculously, I started winning. Not big wins, but steady ones. A hand here, a hand there. My balance crept up from thirty dollars to forty-five, then to sixty, then to ninety. I played for two hours, the longest I’d ever played anything in my life. And when I finally cashed out, I had one hundred and forty dollars in my account. The exact amount she had won for my graduation. I withdrew the money and sat there, staring at the screen. The coincidence was too perfect. Too strange. I know it was random — I know that’s how odds work, how probability works, how the universe doesn’t care about sentimental narratives. But it felt like a message. A wink from the other side. A reminder that she was still watching, still rooting for me, still sending luck my way from wherever she had gone. I kept her notebook. I don’t use it — I’m not as disciplined as she was, not as patient or methodical — but I keep it on my desk, right next to my monitor. Sometimes, when I’m feeling stuck or sad or just missing her more than usual, I open it to a random page and read her notes. “The seven is lucky on Tuesdays.” “Always tip the dealer, even virtual.” “If you’re not having fun, walk away.” She wasn’t trying to get rich. She wasn’t chasing a jackpot or trying to escape her life. She was just having fun. A little thrill in the quiet evenings, a small spark of excitement in a life that had become mostly routine. I play sometimes now. Not often, maybe once a month, when the mood strikes. I play her games — the flamingos, the blackjack, the European wheel. I deposit fifty dollars, never more. I withdraw when I’m ahead, just like she taught me. And sometimes, when the reels line up just right or the dealer gives me a perfect card, I feel her there. Not in a spooky way, not like a ghost hovering over my shoulder. Just in a soft, warm way, like the memory of a hug. Like she’s sitting in her chair across the room, knitting or reading or watching Jeopardy, and every once in a while she looks up and smiles because she knows I finally understand. I used to think gambling was about money. About risk and reward, about beating the odds, about proving something to yourself or the world. But my grandmother’s notebook taught me something different. It taught me that sometimes gambling is just about staying awake. About having something to look forward to. About the small, quiet joy of a spinning wheel and the hope that this time, just this once, the ball will land on your number. She wasn’t a gambler. She was a woman who knew that life is short and boring and hard, and that a little bit of reckless hope — even hope you have to pay for — is worth every penny. I miss her every day. But I’m grateful she left me one last secret. Not the money. Just the reminder that it’s okay to play.

I hate flying. Not in a casual, “oh, it’s a bit bumpy” way, but in a deep, visceral, white-knuckle, sweat-through-my-shirt kind of way. The kind of fear that makes you reassess your life choices every time the seatbelt sign turns on. I’ve tried everything to manage it, the pills that make you groggy, the breathing exercises that make you feel like you’re hyperventilating in a paper bag, the strategy of drinking exactly two tiny bottles of wine and hoping for the best. Nothing really works. My brain knows, on a rational level, that flying is safer than driving. My body does not care. My body is convinced that every turbulence bump is the beginning of a rapid unscheduled descent. The trip that changed everything was supposed to be a simple one. San Francisco to New York, a straight shot across the country, six hours in the air if the winds were cooperating. I was flying out for my sister’s engagement party, a celebration I couldn’t miss even though the thought of being thirty thousand feet in the air made me feel like my insides were made of jelly. I’d booked a window seat because I’d read somewhere that looking at the horizon helps with motion sickness. It doesn’t. It just gives you a front-row view of the vast, terrifying emptiness between you and the ground. I got to the airport three hours early, which is my standard protocol. More time to panic. More time to walk past the same gift shop seven times, buying things I don’t need, like a neck pillow that smells like lavender and a pack of gum I’ll never open. I found my gate, sat down in the most uncomfortable plastic chair ever invented, and tried to distract myself with my phone. I scrolled through social media, watched a video about a cat who could play the piano, read a news article about something I’d forgotten by the time I finished it. Nothing worked. The fear was sitting in my chest like a stone, heavy and immovable. That’s when I remembered the app. A coworker had mentioned it a few weeks ago, during a lunch break when we were both too tired to talk about work. She’d said something about how she used it on the subway, just to pass the time, and how the games were surprisingly fun. I’d downloaded it on a whim and never opened it, because I have a hundred apps on my phone that I’ve downloaded on a whim and never opened. But sitting in that plastic chair, watching the departure board tick closer to boarding time, I needed something, anything, to occupy the part of my brain that was screaming at me to run back to the parking lot and drive home. I opened the vavada mobile app for the first time, and I was genuinely surprised by how good it looked. Not clunky, not crowded, just a clean interface with smooth animations and easy navigation. No login required, just a tap and I was in. I’d expected something that felt like a cheap knockoff of a real casino, but this felt polished, professional, like someone had actually thought about the user experience instead of just throwing slots at a wall and seeing what stuck. I browsed through the game library while I waited, killing time, not really planning to play anything, just enjoying the distraction. Boarding was called. I put my phone in my pocket, grabbed my lavender-scented neck pillow, and walked down the jet bridge with the slow, reluctant steps of a man walking to his own execution. I found my seat, wedged myself between a woman who was already asleep and a teenager who was watching a movie on his laptop without headphones, and buckled my seatbelt so tight I left marks on my hips. The plane taxied. The engines roared. We lifted off, and I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the fact that I was inside a metal tube hurtling through the sky at five hundred miles an hour. The first hour was fine. Not good, not comfortable, but fine. The seatbelt sign was off, the flight attendants were handing out pretzels, and the woman next to me was snoring softly. I started to relax, just a little, just enough to take out my phone and open the app again. I figured I’d play a few hands of something, maybe a slot game with bright colors and simple rules, something that didn’t require too much brain power. I found a game called Jungle Gold that had a cartoon tiger who roared every time you won, and I played it for a while, watching the reels spin, feeling my heartbeat slow down to something approaching normal. Then the turbulence started. It wasn’t bad at first. Just a few bumps, the kind that make the seatbelt sign flicker on and off like a confused Christmas tree. But then it got worse. Much worse. The plane dropped, suddenly and violently, the kind of drop that makes your stomach float up into your throat and sends drinks sliding off tray tables. The teenager next to me paused his movie and looked around with wide eyes. The sleeping woman woke up with a start and grabbed the armrest. The captain came on the intercom and said something about “choppy air” in a voice that was trying to be calm but wasn’t quite succeeding. I was frozen. Not figuratively. Literally. My hands were gripping the armrests so hard that my knuckles had turned white. My breath was coming in short, shallow gasps, the kind that come right before you start hyperventilating. I tried the breathing exercises. I tried the tiny bottles of wine, though I only had one because I’d finished the other during takeoff. I tried closing my eyes and counting backward from a hundred. Nothing worked. The plane dropped again, and I made a sound, a small, embarrassing sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a yelp. And then, without thinking, I reached for my phone. The vavada mobile app was still open, the cartoon tiger still grinning at me from the screen. I didn’t care about winning. I didn’t care about the money. I just needed something to look at, something to focus on, something that wasn’t the rattling overhead bins or the terrified expressions of the other passengers. I started playing. Not the slot game, which felt too passive, but a live blackjack table, where I could see a real dealer, a real person, dealing real cards in some studio somewhere far below the chaos. The dealer’s name was Elena, and she had a calm, steady presence that cut through my panic like a knife through butter. She didn’t know I was on a plane. She didn’t know that my hands were shaking so badly I could barely tap the screen. She just dealt the cards, one by one, with the same unhurried rhythm, the same gentle professionalism. I placed a bet, a small one, just five dollars, because I couldn’t think clearly enough to do anything else. Elena dealt me a ten and a six. Sixteen. The dealer showed a six. I stood, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and the dealer turned over a queen, then a five. Twenty-one. I lost. I didn’t care. The five dollars was gone, but something else had happened. For those thirty seconds, while the cards were being dealt, I hadn’t thought about the plane. I hadn’t thought about the turbulence or the height or the terrifying vulnerability of being suspended in nothing. I had thought about sixteen against a six, about whether to hit or stand, about the tiny decision that mattered in a tiny, contained world where nothing else existed. The plane dropped again, but this time, I barely noticed. I played another hand. Bet ten dollars this time. Elena dealt me a pair of eights, which is an ugly hand, so I split them. She dealt a three on the first eight and a ten on the second. Eleven and eighteen. The dealer showed a five. I doubled down on the eleven, got a seven. Eighteen. I stood on the eighteen. The dealer turned over a nine, then a king. Nineteen. I lost the first hand but won the second. No nicht gain. No nicht loss. But I was breathing normally again. My hands had stopped shaking. The woman next to me was still clutching the armrest, but I wasn’t. The turbulence lasted another twenty minutes, the worst twenty minutes of flying I’ve ever experienced. But I didn’t panic. I played blackjack. Hand after hand, bet after bet, win or lose, it didn’t matter. Elena’s calm face, the click of the digital cards, the small decisions that added up to nothing and everything. I lost track of how much I was up or down. I didn’t care. The money was irrelevant. What mattered was that I had found a life raft, a small, strange, improbable life raft in the form of a mobile app and a dealer named Elena. When the turbulence finally stopped, the captain came back on the intercom, this time sounding genuinely relieved. “Ladies and gentlemen, we appear to be through the worst of it. We’ll be landing in New York shortly.” The woman next to me let out a long, shaky breath. The teenager put his headphones back on. I looked down at my phone, at the blackjack table, at Elena dealing to someone else now, and I felt something I hadn’t felt on a plane in years. I felt calm. I cashed out at the end of the flight. I’d started with fifty dollars and ended with sixty-three. A thirteen-dollar profit for two hours of playing, which was terrible by any reasonable standard, but I didn’t care about that either. I cared about the fact that I’d made it. I’d survived the worst turbulence of my life without a panic attack, without hyperventilating, without making a scene. I’d done it with a cartoon tiger and a dealer named Elena and a mobile app that I’d downloaded on a whim and never opened. My sister’s engagement party was wonderful. She cried when she saw me, because she knew how much I hated flying and how hard it was for me to get on a plane. I didn’t tell her about the turbulence. I didn’t tell her about the blackjack. I just hugged her and said I was glad to be there, which was true, more true than she knew. I flew back to San Francisco three days later, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t dreading it. I had my phone, I had the vavada mobile app, and I had a strategy. Not a winning strategy, not a money-making strategy, just a survival strategy. I found Elena again, or someone like her, a dealer with a kind face and steady hands, and I played blackjack the whole way home. There was turbulence again, of course, there always is, but I barely noticed. I was too busy thinking about sixteen against a six, about whether to hit or stand, about the small decisions that fill the spaces between fear and calm. I still use the app on flights. Not on the ground, not at home, just in the air. It’s become my ritual, my security blanket, my strange little tradition. I don’t win much, and I don’t lose much, and that’s fine. The money isn’t the point. The point is the focus, the distraction, the way the cards pull you out of your own head and into a world where the only thing that matters is the next decision. My therapist says this is called “grounding,” and that there are healthier ways to do it. But she’s never been on a plane during a turbulence storm with a sleeping woman on one side and a teenager watching a movie without headphones on the other. She’s never needed a cartoon tiger to remind her that the world still exists outside the fear. That first flight, the one with the worst turbulence of my life, changed something in me. Not because I won money, but because I learned that fear doesn’t have to be the end of the story. You can sit in the middle of it, shaking and sweating and making embarrassing whimpering sounds, and you can still reach for your phone, open an app, and find a way through. Elena doesn’t know she helped me. The cartoon tiger doesn’t know he saved me from a full-blown panic attack at thirty thousand feet. But I know. And every time I board a plane, I tap the little icon on my home screen, and I say a small, silent thank you to whoever decided to put a blackjack table in my pocket. The rest is just altitude.

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