It was supposed to be an easy flight home—just a few quiet hours in the air, a movie, maybe some sleep. But halfway through, peace gave way to the unmistakable rhythm of a small foot repeatedly slamming into the back of my seat. At first, it was just a gentle tap, the kind of thing you try to ignore. But before long, it turned into steady, deliberate kicks, the seat jerking slightly each time. I turned around, expecting maybe a toddler struggling to sit still. Instead, I saw a boy around eight or nine, swinging his legs gleefully while staring at a tablet. His parents sat on either side, completely indifferent, as if the back of my seat was just another part of their child’s playground.
I tried to be patient. I told myself it wasn’t worth making a scene. But after the fifth or sixth kick in less than a minute, the frustration was impossible to ignore. I shifted, sighed, even turned around once with what I hoped was a polite but clear look. Nothing changed. The boy kept kicking, lost in his game. That’s when my dad, who sat next to me, finally looked up from his book. My father has the patience of a saint—he’s the kind of man who stays calm in traffic jams and smiles at rude people. But even he had reached his limit.
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