The gate agent announced final boarding, and that’s when he told me. His voice was light, as if mentioning a change in the weather. He had upgraded his ticket. To business class. The words hung in the air between us, a monument to his selfishness. He handed me the children’s documents and then he was gone, absorbed into the privileged line while I remained, anchored by bags and babies.
The journey was a long, cramped trial. My world was a symphony of whimpers and sticky hands, punctuated by the cheerful ping of his text messages describing a paradise of quiet and space a few curtains away. I felt less like a wife and more like hired help. Our arrival brought a reckoning. His father was there, his eyes missing nothing. He saw his son, well-rested and detached, and he saw me, emerging from the economy-class tunnel looking as frayed as I felt. The older man’s face hardened in understanding.
What followed was a masterclass in paternal discipline. There was a public reprimand at the airport, a humiliating glass of milk ordered for him at a family dinner while wine flowed for others, and finally, a rearranged itinerary. For the flight home, my husband’s ticket was a one-way journey to a solitary hotel room, a destination chosen for reflection. His father’s message was clear: you valued a seat over your family, so now you will sit alone. As the children and I flew home together, I realized that the most uncomfortable journey my husband would ever take was the one into his own conscience.
