I’m Sophie, and I thought booking flights was a simple favor my husband Clark could handle. We were headed to his family for the holidays, juggling a toddler, a diaper bag, and the usual chaos of traveling with kids. Clark said he had it covered, so I let him.
At the airport I asked about our seats and he gave me that sheepish grin I’ve learned to dread. He’d upgraded himself and his mother to first class and left me in economy with the kids. Clark shrugged like it was no big deal. His mother glided by with designer luggage, already picturing champagne and extra legroom. I watched them walk away and felt something shift—anger, yes, but a small, stubborn idea of payback forming in my head.
On the plane, Clark and his mom toasted with champagne while I wrestled carry-ons and buckled cranky children into their seats. I’d slipped his wallet into my bag at security—an impulse that felt petty and perfect. Two hours into the flight, while the kids finally slept, I watched Clark order the most expensive meals and top-shelf drinks. Then the inevitable happened: an attendant came down the aisle asking for payment in first class and Clark realized his wallet was gone. Panic spread across his face. He pleaded, flustered, promising to pay later. I munched popcorn and enjoyed the show—my quiet, self-made justice.
When he came back to economy pleading for help, I offered a fraction of what he needed and suggested, loudly enough for his mother to hear, that she might cover the rest. The humiliation of having to ask her was the perfect punctuation. By the time we landed, Clark was pale and defeated; his first-class luxe cruise had been punctured by a missing wallet and an awkward silence with his mom. I kept the wallet hidden a bit longer—partly as a gag, partly as a reminder—before giving it back when we were off the plane. It wasn’t about money so much as a lesson: don’t leave your family in the cheap seats while you ride in luxury
