I thought the only turbulence we’d face was in the air—not in my marriage. But on the flight to Florida, my husband Eric pulled a stunt so selfish that karma had no choice but to jump on board.
It was supposed to be our first real family trip with the twins. We were flying down to Tampa so Eric’s parents could finally meet their 18-month-old grandchildren. His dad had been counting the days, FaceTiming us almost every night.
The airport was pure chaos. Strollers, car seats, diaper bags—it felt like we were hauling our entire house through security. I was already sweating when Eric casually slipped away with a vague, “I’m going to check something real quick.”
Next thing I knew, his boarding pass scanned green at the gate, and he turned to me with a grin.
“Babe, I snagged an upgrade. I’ll see you on the other side. You’ll be fine with the kids, right? I need rest too.”
I laughed, thinking it was a bad joke. It wasn’t. He kissed my cheek and vanished into business class, leaving me to wrestle two toddlers, a collapsing stroller, and a diaper bag heavier than a small car.
By the time I collapsed into seat 32B, Ava had dumped apple juice in my lap, Mason was howling for snacks, and the man next to us begged a flight attendant to reseat him. I couldn’t even be mad at him.
Then my phone buzzed. A text from Eric:
“Food is amazing up here. They even gave me a warm towel 😍.”
Meanwhile, my father-in-law texted asking for a video of the kids’ “first flight.” I recorded Ava pounding the tray table like a drum, Mason gnawing his stuffed giraffe, and me looking like a disaster. I sent it without explanation. His only reply? A thumbs-up emoji.
When we landed, I stumbled off the plane juggling bags and overtired toddlers. Eric sauntered out, stretching like he’d just stepped out of a spa.
“Man, that was a great flight,” he said. “Did you try the pretzels? Oh wait…” He chuckled at his own joke.
At baggage claim, his dad rushed over, scooped up Ava, and beamed at me. “Look at you, champion of the skies.” Then he turned to Eric. “Son… we’ll talk later.”
And they did. That night, once the twins were asleep, I heard the rumble of his father’s voice through the study door.
“You left your wife with two toddlers while you sat in business class? You think that’s funny? That’s not how a husband behaves. That’s not how a father behaves.”
The next morning, my father-in-law gave me a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry. I took care of it.” Eric avoided eye contact for the rest of the trip.
But karma wasn’t done.
Two nights later, we went out for a fancy waterfront dinner—candlelight, jazz, white tablecloths. The waiter took drink orders. Bourbon for my father-in-law, iced tea for my mother-in-law, sparkling water for me. When it came to Eric, his dad didn’t miss a beat.
“And for him,” he told the waiter, “a glass of milk. Since he clearly can’t handle being an adult.”
The silence broke into laughter. Even the waiter grinned. Eric turned red and sulked through the meal.
Still, the real blow landed at the airport heading home. At check-in, the agent handed Eric his boarding pass with a cheery, “Looks like you’ve been upgraded again, sir.” His face lit up—until he saw the envelope it came in. Across the front was handwriting he knew well:
“Business class again. Enjoy. But this one’s one-way. You’ll explain it to your wife.”
It was his father’s handwriting.
Eric muttered something about “re-thinking priorities” while dragging his bag. I wrangled both kids with quiet satisfaction.
Because this time, karma hadn’t just taken a seat—it had upgraded itself to first class.