A week before our family trip to Rome, my sister called — not to ask, but to inform me — that I’d be on childcare duty for the entire ten-hour flight. Her plan? Hand over the kids while she sat with her new boyfriend, uninterrupted.
Years of being her built-in babysitter had already drained my goodwill. This time, I decided I was done playing along. Quietly, I used my frequent-flyer miles to upgrade myself to business class… and didn’t say a word.
At the airport, she showed up drowning in bags, a baby on her hip, her older two bickering at her knees. Her boyfriend trailed behind, looking like he regretted life choices.
As boarding was called, I smiled sweetly and said, “Oh, I’m not sitting with you. I’m in business class.”
The way her jaw dropped was worth every mile I’d ever earned. I walked toward the front of the plane, feeling lighter with every step.
Minutes later, I was sinking into a wide leather seat, sipping champagne, and pulling on noise-canceling headphones. The world — and her chaos — faded to silence.
A flight attendant approached mid-boarding. “Your sister in economy says she’d like some help with the children. Would you consider switching seats?”
I smiled politely. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
From my side of the curtain, I caught glimpses: her chasing a toddler down the aisle, wrestling with a baby who refused to stop crying, her boyfriend fumbling with juice boxes like they were grenades.
Meanwhile, I enjoyed gourmet meals, a full recline, and a movie without a single interruption. Each faint wail drifting from the back felt like a victory lap.
When we landed in Rome, she looked like she’d survived a natural disaster — stroller wheel missing, spit-up on her blouse, hair frizzed into submission.
At baggage claim, she eyed me and asked, “Don’t you feel guilty?”
I slid on my sunglasses, smiled, and told her the truth.
“Nope. I finally felt free.”
