People say karma has a way of evening the score, and I had never believed it more than on a particular flight that still sticks in my mind. My name is Becca, I’m 26 years old, and I work as a freelance graphic designer — which means my laptop isn’t just a gadget, it’s practically an extension of my hands and my livelihood.
That day, I was flying to visit my grandmother. She had been in and out of the hospital for weeks, and the doctors weren’t optimistic about how much time she might have left.
My grandmother and I have always shared a special bond. Growing up, I spent countless weekends at her home, listening to her tell stories from her youth — tales about the adventures she had, the people she met, and the lessons she learned. We’d sip tea on her porch swing, laughing about small, silly things that seemed to matter only to us.
When I was lost and unsure about my future, she was the one who encouraged me to pursue my passion for graphic design. So when I learned her condition was worsening, I knew I had to be there — to sit beside her, hold her hand, and remind her of the memories we’d always cherished. The anxiety over her health felt like a heavy weight pressing down on my chest.
Once I boarded the plane, I found my window seat, stowed my laptop bag under the seat ahead of me, and let out a sigh of relief. As I buckled in, I noticed the man who would be occupying the seat next to mine.
He looked to be in his mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp business suit that practically announced his profession without a word. Without making eye contact, he muttered, “Excuse me,” and slid into his seat, his tone impatient. The moment he sat down, he pulled out his phone and became absorbed in whatever he was doing, ignoring everything around him.
I decided to let it go — maybe he was dealing with his own problems. I took out my laptop, planning to distract myself with work. Plugging in my earbuds, I began typing, losing myself in my project.
About an hour into the flight, he caught the attention of a passing flight attendant.
“I’ll have a whiskey, neat,” he said curtly, his tone sharp.
I tried to ignore his demeanor, focusing on my work. Soon, the attendant returned and handed him the drink, which he accepted without so much as a thank you.
Then, it happened. I heard the unmistakable sound of liquid splashing. In an instant, cold wetness spread across my jeans, the seat, and — worst of all — my laptop.
My heart jumped into my throat as I scrambled to lift my laptop out of the spill. My hands shook as I turned to him, seeing the whiskey dripping across the keys and screen.
He glanced at the mess with mild irritation, as though I had somehow caused the accident.
“Could you at least apologize? You’ve just ruined my laptop,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even.
He smirked — a slow, infuriating smirk that made my blood boil.
“What are you going to do, cry about it?” he replied, his voice dripping with condescension. He didn’t offer to help, didn’t apologize, didn’t even pretend to care. Instead, he turned back to his phone as if nothing had happened.
I stared at him, stunned. My laptop — my work, my connection to my clients and my family — was destroyed in an instant, and he couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge it.
Anger surged through me, but I swallowed my words. I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. I dabbed at the keyboard and screen, but the damage was already done. The display flickered ominously, and the keys were soaked. I knew it was beyond saving.
The rest of the flight was a blur. My thoughts swirled between fury and resignation. Then, the captain’s voice came over the intercom:
“Ladies and gentlemen, due to severe weather, all connecting flights have been canceled. Please see the gate agent after landing for rebooking options.”
A low groan rippled through the cabin. For most passengers, this was frustrating news. For me, it barely registered — my only concern was making it to my grandmother.
The man beside me, however, reacted very differently. The smug confidence he’d worn earlier evaporated, replaced by visible panic. He fumbled with his phone, muttering under his breath.
“This can’t be happening… I’ve got an important meeting… I can’t miss this…”
He looked like he was on the verge of unraveling. Meanwhile, I calmly connected to the in-flight Wi-Fi, searching for alternate flights. I had time, and I was focused on what truly mattered.
After a few minutes of watching me navigate the rebooking system, he leaned toward me.
“Hey, can I use your phone to rebook my flight? I have a really important meeting I can’t miss,” he said, his voice shaking, the arrogance from earlier completely gone.
I met his eyes, remembering his smirk, his insult, his total disregard when he ruined my laptop. My lips curled into the faintest smile.
“No,” I said evenly. “Why don’t you go cry about it?”
His eyes went wide, the words sinking in. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but I had already turned back to my screen, giving him nothing more.
When we landed, he shot out of his seat, frantically hunting for a gate agent. His earlier composure was gone; he was frantic, disheveled, and desperate.
I, on the other hand, gathered my belongings slowly, moving with deliberate calm. My thoughts were already on my grandmother. I didn’t know when I would get there, but I would — and that was all that mattered.
As I walked away, I realized something: I didn’t need to shout at him or seek revenge. Karma had handled it perfectly at 30,000 feet.