I boarded what I thought would be a quiet, uneventful flight home—maybe a movie, maybe some sleep. But halfway through, peace shattered with the rhythmic thump of tiny feet against my seat. At first, it was a gentle tap. By minute five, it was relentless: deliberate kicks, each one jarring the chair.
I turned around and saw a boy, about eight or nine, swinging his legs like he owned the plane, glued to his tablet. His parents? Completely indifferent, scrolling on their phones as if my back were part of the scenery.
I tried patience. I tried polite glances. Nothing worked. The kicking continued. That’s when my dad, calm as ever, finally looked up from his book. He’s the kind of man who smiles in traffic jams and never loses his cool—but even his patience has limits.
Without raising his voice, he leaned back and pressed the recline button. Slowly. Directly into the lap of the boy’s mother. Her phone nearly slipped. “Excuse me!” she snapped.
“I can,” he said simply, voice steady. “It reclines.”
The mother flagged down a flight attendant, insisting my dad was being unreasonable. The attendant, calm and experienced, smiled. “Ma’am, passengers are allowed to recline their seats if they wish.”
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