I anticipated turbulence during the flight, not in my marriage. One moment, we were wrestling with nappy bags and boarding with our twin toddlersthe next, my husband disappeared behind the curtain into business class, abandoning me to the chaos.
Ever had that sinking feeling your other half is about to do something absurd, but you dismiss it? That was me at Heathrow Terminal 5baby wipes poking out of my pocket, one twin strapped to my chest, the other chewing my sunglasses.
This was meant to be our first proper family holidayme, Oliver, and our 18-month-old twins, Poppy and Archie. We were flying to Spain to visit his parents in their sunlit retirement villa near Barcelona. His dad had been counting the days, video-calling so often Archie now called every silver-haired man “Grandad.”
We were already overloaded: nappy bags, pushchairs, car seatsthe full circus. Then Oliver murmured, “Just going to check something,” and slipped off to the counter.
Did I suspect? Not a chance. I was too busy hoping no nappies exploded before takeoff.
Then boarding began.
The gate agent scanned his ticket, beamed, and Oliver turned to me with a smirk. “Love, I got an upgrade. You’ll manage with the kids, yeah? See you on the other side.”
I laughed. Surely, he was joking.
He wasnt.
Before I could react, he pecked my cheek and swaggered into business class like some traitorous duke. Meanwhile, I stood there with two wriggling toddlers and a collapsing pushchair, unravelling in front of half the airport.
He thought hed won. But karma had already boarded.
By the time I squeezed into seat 24D, I was sweating through my jumper, both twins were battling over a beaker, and my patience was long gone. Poppy tipped orange juice onto my lap.
“Brilliant,” I muttered, dabbing at the stain with a stale muslin cloth.
The man beside me pressed the call button. “Any chance of moving? Its a bit lively here.”
I wanted to weep. Instead, I watched him escape and secretly wished I could climb into the overhead locker.
Then my phone buzzed.
Oliver.
“Foods top-notch up here. They even gave me a hot towel ”
I stared at the message, clutching a grubby baby wipe, wondering if fate accepted bribes.
Seconds later, another pingfrom my father-in-law.
“Send me a video of my grandbabies on the plane! Proper little jet-setters now!”
So I filmed Poppy banging her tray like a drummer, Archie gnawing his stuffed bear, and meexhausted, pale, hair in a greasy topknot.
Oliver? Nowhere to be seen.
I sent it. He replied with a single .
That shouldve been the end. Spoiler: it wasnt.
When we landed, I wrestled overtired twins, three heavy bags, and a jammed pushchair. Oliver strolled off behind me, stretching as if hed just had a spa weekend.
“Blimey, that was lush. Did you get the crisps? Oh, wait” He chuckled.
At baggage reclaim, his dad spotted us. He swept Poppy into his arms, kissed my cheek, and said, “Look at youqueen of the skies.”
Then Oliver stepped forward. “Alright, Dad?”
But his dads smile vanished. Stone-faced, he said, “Son well talk later.”
And talk they did.
That night, once the twins were asleep, I heard it: “Oliver. Study. Now.”
I pretended to scroll through my phone, but the muffled row was unmistakable:
“You think that was clever?”
“She said she could manage”
“Thats not the bloody point, Oliver!”
When the door finally opened, my father-in-law walked past, squeezed my shoulder, and murmured, “Dont fret, love. Sorted.”
Oliver slunk upstairs, silent.
The next evening, his mum announced dinner outher treat. Oliver brightened. “Lovely! Somewhere posh?”
We ended up at a riverside restaurant, candlelit, soft piano in the background. The waiter took our drink orders.
FIL: “Single malt, neat.”
MIL: “Earl Grey, no milk.”
Me: “Sparkling water.”
Then he turned to Oliver. Deadpan.
“And for him a glass of milk. Since hes clearly not grown-up enough for anything stronger.”
The silence was deafeningthen laughter erupted. His mum tittered, I choked on my water, even the waiter stifled a grin. Oliver sat crimson-cheeked, mute, the entire meal.
But karma wasnt done.
Two days later, as I folded laundry, his dad leaned against the porch railing. “Just so you know,” he said, “Ive updated the will. Trust for the kids, and for youenough to keep you comfortable. Olivers share? Shrinking daily until he learns what family means.”
I was stunned. He winked.
By the time we flew home, Oliver was suddenly Father of the Decade: offering to haul car seats, nappy bags, anything.
At check-in, the agent handed him his boarding pass and paused. “Oh, siryouve been upgraded again.”
Oliver blinked. The ticket sleeve had a note scrawled in bold ink: “Business class again. Enjoy. But this ones one-way. Explain it to your wife.”
I knew that handwriting.
“Blimey,” I whispered. “Your dad didnt”
“He did,” Oliver muttered. “Said I could relax in style at the hotel Ill be staying in alone. Time to reflect.”
I burst out laughing. “Guess karma flies first-class too.”
As I boarded with both twins, Oliver trailed behind, sheepish, dragging his suitcase.
Just before we stepped onto the plane, he leaned in. “So any chance I can earn my way back to economy?”
