You know that split second when you just know your partner is about to do something outrageous, but your brain refuses to believe it? That was me at Terminal C—baby wipes sticking out of my pocket, one twin strapped to my chest, the other chewing on my sunglasses like a tiny raccoon.
It was our first big family trip: me, my husband Eric, and our 18-month-old twins, Ava and Mason, heading to Florida to visit his parents in their golf-cart paradise. His dad FaceTimes so often that Mason now calls every white-haired man “Papa” at Target.
We’re at the gate juggling strollers, diaper bags, and chaos when Eric casually strolls up to the counter. Boarding begins. The agent scans his pass, and Eric turns to me with the smuggest grin I’ve ever seen.
“Babe, I snagged an upgrade. I’ll see you after the flight—you’ll be fine with the kids, right?”
I laugh. Because obviously that’s a joke. Spoiler: it was not a joke.
Eric disappears into Business Class like royalty, leaving me in coach with two restless toddlers and a collapsing stroller. By the time I wedge into 32B, I’m sweating, Ava is pounding her tray table like a DJ, Mason is teething on a stuffed giraffe, and I’m wearing apple juice as perfume. My phone buzzes:
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