I had carefully chosen a window seat weeks before the flight — a small, quiet reward after a long, demanding year of work. That little view of the sky felt like a luxury I had earned — a few hours to unwind, to watch the clouds drift by, and to think about how far I’d come.
When I boarded, a young girl — maybe seven years old — sat beside me with her father. She had big, curious eyes and clutched a stuffed animal tightly in her lap. The moment she spotted the window, her face lit up with wonder. But as the plane began to taxi down the runway, her expression changed. Her eyes filled with tears, and she began to cry softly, whispering that she wanted to see outside.
Her father leaned toward me with a gentle smile and asked, “Would you mind switching seats with my daughter so she can look out the window?” His tone was polite, and I could tell he just wanted to comfort her. But I had chosen this seat weeks in advance — after years of always giving up small things for others, this was one of the few I’d kept for myself. So I smiled and explained softly, “I’m sorry, but I really wanted to sit here. I booked it ahead of time.”
He sighed heavily and muttered under his breath, “You’re a grown woman but still very immature.” The words cut deeper than I expected. I turned toward the window, pretending to watch the tarmac, but I could feel my face grow warm with embarrassment. Around us, a few passengers glanced over. The little girl kept crying quietly, and for a moment, I wondered if I had made the wrong choice.
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