Before I could blink, he kissed my cheek and strutted into business class like some traitor prince. Meanwhile, I stood there with two squirming toddlers and a collapsing stroller, unraveling in front of the universe.
He thought he’d scored. But karma had already checked in.
By the time I squeezed into seat 32B, I was sweating through my hoodie, both twins were at war over a sippy cup, and my patience had officially evaporated. Ava dumped apple juice in my lap.
“Perfect,” I muttered, blotting myself with a sour burp cloth.
The man beside me pressed the call button. “Can I be moved? It’s… a bit noisy here.”
I wanted to cry. Instead, I let him escape and silently wished I could crawl into the overhead bin too.
Then my phone buzzed.
Eric.
“Food is amazing up here. They even gave me a warm towel 
”
I stared at the message, holding a grimy baby wipe to my chest, wondering if the universe took bribes.
Seconds later, another ping—from my father-in-law.
“Send me a video of my grandbabies on the plane! I want to see them flying like big kids!”
So I filmed Ava pounding her tray table like a DJ, Mason gnawing his giraffe, and me—frazzled, pale, hair in a greasy knot.
Eric? Not in sight.
I sent it. He replied with a single 
.
That should’ve been the end of it. Spoiler: it wasn’t.
When we landed, I wrangled overtired twins, three heavy bags, and a stubborn stroller. Eric sauntered off the plane behind me, yawning like he’d just had a spa day.
“Man, that was a great flight. Did you try the pretzels? Oh wait…” He chuckled.
At baggage claim, his dad spotted us. He scooped Ava into his arms, kissed my cheek, and said, “Look at you—champion of the skies.”
Then Eric stepped forward. “Hey, Pops!”
But his dad’s smile vanished. Stone-faced, he said, “Son… we’ll talk later.”
And talk they did.
That night, once the twins were asleep, I heard it: “Eric. In the study. Now.”
I pretended to scroll my phone, but the muffled shouting was clear:
“You think that was funny?”
