You know that split second when you can feel your partner about to do something outrageous, but your brain refuses to process it? That was me at Terminal C, baby wipes sticking out of my pocket, one twin strapped to my chest, the other gnawing on my sunglasses like a starved raccoon.
It was our first real family trip: me, my husband Eric, and our 18-month-old twins, Ava and Mason, flying to Florida to see his parents in their pastel golf-cart kingdom. His dad has been FaceTiming so much that Mason now says “Papa” to every white-haired man in line at Target.
We’re juggling stroller-carseat-diaper-bag Tetris at the gate when Eric leans over and goes, “I’m just gonna check something real quick,” and glides to the counter. Cute. Helpful, I think.
Boarding starts. The agent scans his ticket and smiles like she’s selling a luxury SUV. Eric turns to me with this smug little grin. “Babe, I snagged an upgrade. I’ll see you on the other side, okay? You’ll be fine with the kids, right?”
I laugh, because that’s… a joke, obviously.
It is not a joke.
He kisses my cheek and disappears behind the little curtain into Business Class like a traitor prince, while I’m left in coach with two toddlers, a collapsing stroller, and a soul leaving my body.
By the time I collapse into 32B, I’m sweating through my hoodie, Ava is pounding her tray table like a club DJ, and Mason is testing the tensile strength of a stuffed giraffe. Apple juice baptizes my lap. The guy next to me asks the flight attendant to move because “it’s… noisy here,” and honestly? Fair. I consider faking my own death.
My phone buzzes. Eric: “Food is amazing up here. They gave me a warm towel 😍”
A warm towel, while I am wiping someone’s spit-up with a floor rescue wipe. I stare at the message like it might apologize.
Then a text from my father-in-law: “Send me a video of my grandbabies flying like big kids!”
I film Ava DJ-ing, Mason chewing the giraffe like it owes him money, and me with the haunted eyes of a woman who could cry at an insurance commercial. I send it. He replies with a thumbs-up.
When we land, I wrangle two overtired toddlers, three bags, and a stroller that now moves only in interpretive dance. Eric emerges from the good side of the curtain yawning and stretching like he just left a spa. “Man, great flight. Did you try the pretz—oh wait,” he chuckles.
At baggage claim, his dad beams, scoops up Ava, calls me “champion of the skies,” then turns to Eric with a face that could curdle milk. “Son… we’ll talk later.”
After bedtime: “Eric. Study. Now.” His dad doesn’t yell; he doesn’t have to. The door shuts. Muffled voices. “You think that was funny?” “It wasn’t a big—” “You left your wife with two toddlers—” “She said she could han—” “That’s not the damn point.”
Fifteen minutes later, my father-in-law emerges calm as a judge. He pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I took care of it.” Eric slinks upstairs without making eye contact.
The next night we go out to a waterfront place with white tablecloths and live jazz. The waiter takes drink orders. “Bourbon, neat,” says my FIL. “Iced tea,” says my MIL. He looks at me. “Sparkling?” I nod gratefully. Then he turns to Eric, expression carved from granite.
“And for him… a glass of milk. Since he clearly can’t handle being an adult.”
The silence lasts exactly one second before my MIL giggles, the waiter bites his lip, and I nearly baptize the table in sparkling water. Eric goes very quiet and contemplates the bread basket like it contains answers.
Two days later, while I’m folding tiny T-shirts on the porch, my father-in-law leans on the railing. “Just so you know,” he says mildly, “I updated the will. There’s a trust for Ava and Mason. And you’re taken care of. Eric’s cut… shrinks a little every time he forgets what comes first.”
Reader, a man’s priorities can sharpen overnight.
At the airport home, Eric is suddenly the world’s most helpful pack mule. “I’ll grab the car seats. Want Mason’s bag? I’ll get the gate check tags! Do you want a coffee? Two coffees?”
We check in. The agent prints our passes and pauses over his. “Oh! You’ve been upgraded again, sir.” She slides his boarding pass into a thick sleeve with something handwritten on the front. He blanches.
“What?” I ask, bouncing Ava.
He hands it to me. In bold black marker: “Business class again. Enjoy. One-way. You’ll explain it to your wife.”
I recognize the handwriting. I start laughing like a villain in a rom-com. “Your dad did not—”
“He did,” Eric mutters. “Said I can ‘relax in luxury’… at the hotel I’m checking into alone for a few days to ‘think about priorities.’”
I kiss the twins and shoulder past him toward economy, where the juice is warm and the tray tables are sticky but the company is excellent.
At the gate, just before boarding, he leans in, cheeks pink. “So… any chance I can earn my way back to economy?”
“We’ll see,” I say, and hand him the diaper bag. “Step one: no warm towel jokes for the rest of your natural life.”