I expected turbulence in the air, not in my marriage. What was supposed to be a fun family trip to Florida quickly became a test of patience, parenting, and poetic justice.
My husband, Eric, and I were traveling with our twin toddlers—diaper bags, strollers, and snacks in tow—to visit his parents in their pastel-colored retirement community near Tampa. I was already juggling more than my fair share before we even reached the gate, managing two squirming 18-month-olds and praying no diaper disaster would strike mid-flight.
And then Eric vanished.
“I’m just going to check something real quick,” he said, slipping away with a vague grin. Moments later, boarding began. That’s when I realized his “check” had been an upgrade—to business class. He kissed my cheek, strutted past me like a conquering hero, and disappeared behind the curtain while I was left with screaming toddlers, collapsing strollers, and a diaper bag that felt heavier than my entire life.
By the time I collapsed into my seat in economy, I was drenched in sweat. Ava spilled apple juice across my lap, while Mason turned his sippy cup into a projectile weapon. The man next to me quickly flagged down a flight attendant for a seat change. I didn’t blame him.
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