Too tired to argue, I nodded. I assumed he’d escort me to a corner somewhere. Instead, he walked forward—past economy, past the curtain, and into business class.
“It’s okay,” he said, gesturing to an empty seat. “You need space. Your baby needs peace.”
“I can’t sit here,” I protested weakly.
“You can,” he replied. “Please.”
In the quiet, spacious cabin, I changed Ethan without bumping elbows or apologizing to strangers. His cries softened, then faded into tired hiccups. Within minutes, he was asleep against my chest.
For the first time since David died, someone had seen me struggle and simply helped.
What I didn’t see was the man in the suit returning to economy—and taking my old seat.
The rude passenger leaned back, satisfied. “Finally,” he said loudly. “That kid was unbearable. Some people shouldn’t fly if they can’t control their children.”
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