I’ve handled my sister’s kids through countless family trips, but a 10-hour flight to Rome was where I drew the line. I’m Sophie, and a week before our trip, my sister, Jessica, called with no hello, just a demand: “You’re watching the kids on the plane.” I was floored. “What?” I said. She sighed, saying she needed time with her boyfriend, Ryan, and that my single life meant I could handle it. Jessica, a single mom post-divorce, always assumed I’d step in. Our parents had treated us to a two-week stay at their Italian villa, but Jessica thought that included me as her in-flight babysitter.
I told her I wasn’t comfortable babysitting mid-air. “It’s easy,” she scoffed, hanging up. Her entitlement hurt, especially after a past vacation where she ditched me with her toddler for days, leaving me to manage meltdowns while she relaxed. I wasn’t repeating that. I called the airline, asking about business class. “Two seats left, $50 with miles,” the agent said. I booked one, picturing a quiet flight with no sippy cups or screams. I didn’t tell Jessica, letting her believe I’d be next to her, stuck with her kids while she and Ryan lounged.
The airport was hectic—families everywhere, kids crying, and Jessica arrived in a mess, pushing a stroller, her five-year-old wailing about a lost toy, her baby fussy. Ryan was useless, fumbling with bags. I stayed composed, boarding passes in hand. At the gate, I said, “I upgraded to business class.” Jessica stared, shocked. “That’s selfish!” she snapped. “I told you I wasn’t babysitting,” I replied, heading to my gate. In business class, I settled into a plush seat, sipping champagne, a warm towel in hand. Through the curtain, I saw Jessica in economy, her kids chaotic, Ryan lost.
A flight attendant approached two hours in. “A woman in 34B wants you to swap or help with her baby,” she said. “No, thanks,” I said, smiling. “I’m fine.” I savored a steak dinner and a movie, free from cries. Jessica’s glare met my grin, her hair frazzled, spit-up on her shirt. As we landed, her exhausted look was telling. At baggage claim, her stroller was wrecked, while my bag waited. “No guilt?” she asked. “None,” I said, grinning. “I’m free.” Choosing my comfort was the best part of the trip, a lesson in setting boundaries.
