My husband Clark thought he was being clever. He booked first class tickets for himself and his mom, while sticking me—his wife—and our two kids in economy. But I wasn’t about to let him glide through the clouds in luxury while I juggled juice boxes and tantrums in the back. No, no. I had a plan. A brilliantly petty one.
Hi, I’m Sophie. And if you’ve ever met the kind of man who thinks his job stress is the only stress that matters, you’ll understand why this flight was the last straw.
We were flying out to visit his family for the holidays. Clark offered to handle the flights, and I thought, “Great. One less thing to worry about.” Until we got to the airport and I asked where our seats were.
Clark didn’t even look up from his phone. “Oh, about that… Mom and I got upgraded to first class. She can’t handle noise, and I really need to rest.”
I blinked. “So… you and your mom are in first class. And I’m back in economy with two small kids?”
He actually shrugged. “It’s just a few hours, Soph. You’ll be fine.”
Then his mom, Nadia, breezed up with her designer luggage and a smug smile. “Ready for our luxurious flight, Clark?”
I smiled back, tight-lipped. “Oh, it’ll be luxurious all right.”
What they didn’t know? I had his wallet. I’d slipped it out of his bag back at security, and tucked it safely into mine. A little in-flight turbulence, courtesy of yours truly.
Fast forward. Clark and his mom are living it up in first class—champagne, gourmet meals, reclining seats. I’m in economy, rocking a toddler to sleep while watching them through the curtain. Our five-year-old was practically sobbing, wanting to sit with Daddy. I had to tell him Daddy was in “a special part of the plane.” Special, alright.
Then came the fun part. I watched Clark order fancy drinks and the most expensive meal on the menu. The kind you definitely need a card for. Which… he no longer had.
About half an hour later, I saw it—the panic. He started patting his pockets. His face turned pale. A flight attendant stood patiently, palm out, waiting for payment. Clark was fumbling, whispering something. Then—bam—he was making the walk of shame down the aisle to me.
“Soph,” he whispered, crouching beside me. “I can’t find my wallet. Please tell me you have some cash.”
I blinked sweetly. “Oh no! That’s awful. How much do you need?”
He muttered, “About $1500.”
I nearly laughed. “Fifteen hundred? What’d you order—gold-plated sushi?”
“I’ll explain later. Just—please.”
I rummaged through my purse. “Hmm… I’ve got maybe $200. That work?”
He looked so defeated. I handed it over slowly, then added, loud enough for nearby passengers to hear, “Maybe your mom can cover the rest? She seemed very excited about the champagne.”
His face? Priceless.
The rest of the flight? Awkward silence up front. Meanwhile, I sat in economy sipping water like it was fine wine.
After landing, he was sulking, mumbling about losing his wallet. I kept playing dumb. “Are you sure you didn’t leave it in first class?” I asked, innocently zipping up my bag.
He kept patting himself down. “All my cards are in there…”
I patted his arm. “Well, at least you had a relaxing flight, right?”
He just groaned.
And me? I waited a couple days before returning his wallet. I may have treated myself to a little something first—call it a service fee for childcare in coach.
So let this be a lesson, ladies: if your man ever books himself first class and leaves you in the trenches, don’t get mad—get creative.
Because in marriage, as in flying, it’s all about balance. And sometimes, a little turbulence is just what he needs.