I anticipated turbulence in the skies, not in my marriage. One moment, we were fumbling with nappy bags and boarding with twin toddlersthe next, my husband disappeared behind a curtain into business class, abandoning me to the chaos.
Ever had that sinking suspicion your partners about to do something absurd, but your mind refuses to accept it? That was me at Terminal 3: baby wipes poking from my pocket, one twin strapped to me, the other gnawing on my sunglasses.
This was meant to be our first proper family holidayme, James, and our 18-month-old twins, Poppy and Oliver. We were flying to Cornwall to visit his parents in their seaside retirement cottage. His father had been counting the days, video-calling so often that Oliver now calls every silver-haired man “Grandad.”
We were already overloaded: nappy bags, pushchairs, car seatsthe full circus. Then James leaned in and muttered, “Just need to check something,” before slipping off to the counter.
Did I suspect anything? Not a chance. I was too busy praying no nappy catastrophes struck before takeoff.
Then boarding began.
The gate agent scanned his ticket, beamed, and James turned to me with a smirk: “Love, I managed an upgrade. Youll manage the kids, yeah? See you on the other side.”
I laughed. Surely a joke.
It wasnt.
Before I could react, he kissed my cheek and swaggered into business class like some traitorous lord. Meanwhile, I stood there with two wriggling toddlers and a collapsing pushchair, unravelling before the entire queue.
He thought hed won. Karma had other plans.
By the time I squeezed into seat 24C, I was sweating through my jumper, both twins were battling over a beaker, and my patience had officially expired. Poppy upended apple juice onto my lap.
“Brilliant,” I muttered, dabbing at it with a sour muslin cloth.
The man beside me pressed the call button. “Could I possibly move? Its rather lively here.”
I wanted to weep. Instead, I let him flee and quietly wished I could crawl into the overhead locker too.
Then my phone buzzed.
James.
“Foods proper posh up here. Even got a hot towel ”
I stared at the message, clutching a grubby baby wipe, wondering if the cosmos accepted bribes.
Seconds later, another pingfrom my father-in-law.
“Send us a video of my grandbabies on the plane! Want to see them flying like big kids!”
So I filmed Poppy slamming her tray like a drummer, Oliver chewing his stuffed lion, and mewild-eyed, pale, hair in a greasy bun.
James? 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 stubborn pushchair. James strolled off the plane behind me, yawning like 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 scooped Poppy up, kissed my cheek, and said, “Look at youqueen of the skies.”
Then James stepped forward. “Alright, Dad?”
But his fathers smile vanished. Deadpan, he said, “Son well talk later.”
And talk they did.
That night, once the twins were asleep, I heard it: “James. Study. Now.”
I pretended to scroll my phone, but the muffled row was unmistakable:
“You think that was clever?”
“She said she could manage”
“Thats not the bloody point, James!”
When the door finally opened, my father-in-law walked past, patted my shoulder, and murmured, “Dont fret, love. Sorted.”
James slunk upstairs, silent.
The next evening, his mum announced dinner outher treat. James perked up: “Nice! Somewhere posh?”
We ended up at a harbour-side restaurant, candlelit, live piano. The waiter took drink orders.
FIL: “Single malt, neat.”
MIL: “Earl Grey, iced.”
Me: “Sparkling water.”
Then he turned to James. Stone-faced.
“And for him a glass of milk. Since hes clearly not grown enough for spirits.”
The silence hungthen laughter erupted. His mum tittered, I nearly choked on my water, even the waiter stifled a grin. James sat crimson, mute, through the entire meal.
But karma wasnt done.
Two days later, while I folded laundry, FIL leaned on the garden fence. “Just so you know,” he said, “Ive updated the will. Trust for the kids, and for youenough to keep you comfortable. Jamess share? Shrinking daily till he learns what family means.”
I was speechless. He winked.
By the time we flew home, James was suddenly Father of the Year: offering to carry car seats, nappy bags, anything.
At check-in, the agent handed him his boarding pass and paused. “Oh, siryouve been upgraded again.”
James blinked. The ticket sleeve bore a scrawl in bold ink: “Business class again. Enjoy. But this ones one-way. Youll explain it to your wife.”
I knew the handwriting at once.
“Blimey,” I whispered. “Your dad didnt”
“He did,” James muttered. “Said I could relax in luxury at the hotel Ill be staying in alone. To think about priorities.”
I burst out laughing. “Guess karma reclines all the way.”
As I boarded with both twins, James trailed behind, sheepish, dragging his suitcase.
Just before we stepped on the plane, he leaned in. “So any chance I can earn my way back to economy?”
