I’ve changed diapers at gas stations, handled tantrums during weddings, and played backup parent more times than I can count. But at 30,000 feet? I finally said no.
A week before our family trip to Rome, my sister called. No greeting — just, “FYI, you’re watching the kids on the flight.”
No ask. Just orders.
She needed “quality time” with her boyfriend. Apparently, my child-free status made me the default nanny. Again.
But this time, I had plans — and they didn’t involve sippy cups or meltdown management.
I called the airline. One seat left in business class. $50 and some miles later, I booked it — and didn’t say a word.
At the gate, she showed up like a tornado: stroller, diaper bags, one kid screaming, one squirming.
I smiled and said, “By the way, I’m in business class.”
She lost it. “That’s selfish! I needed help!”
I shrugged. “You assumed. I declined.”
Onboard, I was sipping champagne while she was wedged in coach, kids flailing, boyfriend useless.
Mid-flight, a flight attendant asked if I’d swap seats or help. I smiled and said, “No, thank you. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Tiramisu. Noise-canceling headphones. Zero regrets.
When we landed, she was wrecked — spit-up, missing stroller wheel, pure chaos. She looked at me and asked, “You really don’t feel guilty?”
I slipped on my sunglasses, smiled, and said, “Nope. I finally felt free.”
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