I expected turbulence in the sky, not in my marriage. One moment we were boarding a flight with diaper bags and twin babies, and the next, I was left juggling chaos while my husband disappeared behind a curtain — straight into business class.
Here’s the thing: you know those moments when your gut screams something’s off but your brain refuses to believe your partner could be that reckless? That was me at the gate in Terminal C, baby wipes sticking out of my hoodie pocket, one twin strapped to my chest, the other gnawing on my sunglasses.
It was supposed to be our first family vacation. Eric and I were taking our eighteen-month-old twins, Ava and Mason, to Florida to visit his parents. His dad had been counting the days, FaceTiming so often that Mason now said “Papa” to every white-haired man he saw. The stress of traveling with toddlers was already at maximum — strollers, car seats, endless bags. At the gate, Eric leaned over and said, “I’m just gonna check something real quick,” before vanishing toward the counter.
I didn’t think much of it. I was too busy hoping no diaper would explode before takeoff. Then boarding started.
The gate agent scanned his ticket and smiled too brightly. Eric turned to me with a smug grin and said, “Babe, I’ll see you on the other side. Managed to snag an upgrade. You’ll be fine with the kids, right?”
I laughed because I thought it was a joke. It wasn’t.
Before I could argue, he kissed my cheek and waltzed into business class, disappearing behind that curtain like some traitor prince. I stood there, stroller collapsing, toddlers fussing, while the universe watched me break.
By the time I collapsed into seat 32B, sweat was dripping down my back, both kids were fighting over the same sippy cup, and my patience was vaporizing. Ava dumped apple juice on my lap before we even left the gate. “Cool,” I muttered, blotting my jeans with a burp cloth that smelled like sour milk.
The man in the aisle seat pressed his call button. “Can I be moved?” he asked the flight attendant. “It’s… a bit noisy here.” He was gone within minutes, leaving me alone in sticky chaos.
Then my phone buzzed. Eric.
“Food is amazing up here. They even gave me a warm towel 😍”
I stared at the message. He was sipping champagne while I was scrubbing spit-up with a baby wipe off the floor. I didn’t reply.
A second ping came through — this time from my father-in-law.
“Send me a video of my grandbabies on the plane! Want to see them flying like big kids!”
I sighed, flipped the camera, and recorded reality: Ava banging her tray table like a DJ, Mason chewing his stuffed giraffe like it owed him money, and me—frazzled, pale, with greasy topknot hair. Eric was nowhere in sight. I sent it. Seconds later, he replied with a simple thumbs-up emoji.
