Quietly, I called the airline. I asked about upgrades. For $50 and a few miles, I moved to business class—and said nothing.
At the gate, she arrived overwhelmed—diaper bags spilling over, stroller jammed, her five-year-old crying over a lost toy. She looked at me, ready to hand off chaos.
That’s when I smiled and said,
“Oh, I upgraded. I’ll be in business class.”
She blinked.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” I replied. “You’ll be fine.”
She was furious. Accused me of being selfish. But I’d already made my decision.
While she juggled juice boxes and crayons in row 34, I sipped sparkling water, wrapped in a blanket, jazz in my headphones. I didn’t look back.
Mid-flight, a flight attendant approached. “There’s a woman in economy asking if you could help with the baby.” I smiled politely.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”
When we landed in Rome, my luggage rolled out smoothly. Ten minutes later, my sister emerged—tired, disheveled, and dragging two exhausted kids.
“You didn’t feel guilty?” she asked.
“Nope,” I said, sliding on my sunglasses. “I felt free.”