Clark booked first-class tickets for himself and his mother—while sticking me in economy with our kids.
But I wasn’t about to sit quietly and let that slide. If he wanted a “luxury” flight, I made sure it came with some unexpected turbulence he wouldn’t forget.
Let me introduce Clark. Classic overworked husband—devoted to his job, perpetually stressed, and absolutely convinced the world revolves around his career. Sure, work is demanding, but so is parenting. And this time, Clark outdid himself.
It was supposed to be a relaxing holiday trip to visit his family for Christmas. A chance to unwind, reconnect, and make memories with the kids. Harmless, right?
He offered to book the flights—something off my plate. I agreed, trusting him.
Big mistake.
At the airport, juggling a diaper bag and a squirmy toddler, I casually asked, “Clark, where are our seats?”
Without looking up from his phone, he mumbled, “Oh, right… about that.”
I froze. “What do you mean, about that?”
He finally looked at me with that familiar guilty grin I’ve learned to dread.
“I got first-class seats for Mom and me. She hates flying, and I really need the peace to rest.”
I stared, waiting for the joke. There wasn’t one.
“Wait—you’re in first class… with your mom… while I’m back in economy with two kids?”
He shrugged like it was no big deal. “It’s just a few hours, Soph. Don’t make a fuss.”
Before I could even process my fury, his mom Nadia appeared with her luxury bags and her pageant-queen smile.
“There you are, Clark! So excited for our fabulous flight!”
Meanwhile, I was wrestling two cranky children, fuming silently as they strutted off toward the first-class lounge. But instead of blowing up, I started planning.
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