Flying with kids is never easy, no matter how much planning you do. I had learned that the hard way when my daughter was younger, screaming fits, spilled juice, the whole row glaring at you like you’re the reason civilization is crumbling. By the time she was eight, though, I thought we had a system down.
Snacks? Packed. Headphones?
Check. A fully charged iPad loaded with movies, games, and drawing apps? Absolutely.
That iPad wasn’t just a screen; it was my daughter’s safe place. She’d had it since she was six, a gift from my late husband who had insisted she needed something of her own to keep her entertained when life got overwhelming. He’d passed away the year before, and though she didn’t talk about it often, I knew that watching the movies they used to enjoy together—animated classics, silly cartoons—helped her feel like he was still close by.
The iPad wasn’t new or fancy anymore, but it was hers, and it meant the world to her. We were flying cross-country to visit my sister, a trip I’d been dreading because I knew how exhausting five hours in a cramped airplane could be. Still, my daughter was excited.
She hugged her backpack like it held treasure, and in a way, it did. The first hour of the flight went smoothly. She had her headphones on, happily watching a movie, munching on pretzels.
I was starting to relax, thinking maybe, just maybe, we’d make it through without incident. That’s when the storm rolled in, though not outside the plane. It started with the shriek of a boy a few rows behind us.
I turned my head, and there he was: maybe six years old, red-faced, fists pounding the seatback in front of him. His mother sat beside him, scrolling on her phone as if she couldn’t hear a thing. Passengers began exchanging looks, sighing, shifting in their seats.
The flight attendant gave a polite but pointed request for the boy to calm down, which the mother brushed off with a dismissive wave. The boy wanted something that much was clear. “Mine!” he screamed, kicking his tray table.
“I want it now!”
I tried to ignore it, focusing on my daughter’s calm little bubble. But the universe had other plans. After another round of screeching, the entitled mom suddenly stood up, grabbed her son’s arm, and dragged him down the aisle.
I thought she was heading to the restroom or maybe to let him walk off some energy. Instead, she stopped right next to us. “Excuse me,” she said in a voice coated with fake sweetness.
“Can my son borrow your iPad for a little while? He’s bored, and it’ll calm him down.”
My daughter immediately hugged the device closer to her chest, shaking her head. I gave the woman a polite but firm smile.
“I’m sorry, but that’s her iPad. She doesn’t share it with strangers.”
The woman’s expression hardened. “They’re just kids.
What’s the big deal? He’ll only use it for a few minutes.”
“I’m afraid the answer is no,” I replied evenly. “She needs it to stay calm, too.
We all do, don’t we?”
That should have been the end of it. But entitled people rarely take no as no. She huffed, muttered something under her breath, and marched back to her seat.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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