By cruising altitude, his cries turned desperate—sharp, pain-filled screams that echoed through the cabin. I tried everything: feeding him, rocking, whispering lullabies that usually worked at home. Nothing helped.
I felt every stare. Some passengers turned up their headphones. Others sighed loudly. A few parents gave me sympathetic looks. But the man next to me did not.
“Can you shut that kid up?” he snapped, leaning close enough that I could smell his stale coffee breath. “I didn’t pay for this.”
My face burned. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, bouncing Ethan gently. “He’s teething. I’m trying.”
“TRY HARDER!” he barked, loud enough for rows around us to hear. “This is ridiculous!”
My hands shook. I wanted to disappear, to fold into myself and make us invisible. What I didn’t realize was that someone else had been watching quietly from a few rows away.
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