I’ve babysat my sister’s kids through countless crises, from car trips to parties. But when she ordered me to watch them on a 10-hour flight to Rome, I drew the line. Her gate-side tantrum was the payback for choosing myself.
My sister, Lisa, is a single mom with a knack for chaos. Fresh off a divorce, she’s obsessed with her boyfriend, Tom, and expects everyone to cater to her. A week before our family trip to Italy, she called. “You’re handling the kids on the flight,” she said, no hello. I choked, “What?” She groaned, “I need time with Tom. You’ve got no kids, and this trip’s bigger for me.” She hung up before I could argue.
Our parents, excited to host us at their new Rome villa, covered our tickets—same flight, same schedule. But Lisa decided that meant I’d be her in-flight babysitter. I told her I wasn’t okay with it. “Just hold the baby sometimes,” she barked, then ended the call. No thanks, no discussion. I was livid. Lisa always pulls this, like when she ditched me with her toddler for days at a beach resort while she “chilled.” I wasn’t falling for it again.
I wanted this trip to be my break, so I called the airline. “Got any business class seats?” I asked. One was available, and with my miles, it was $45. I snagged it, picturing a calm flight with no tantrums. I kept it secret, letting Lisa think I’d be stuck next to her, passing out juice while she flirted with Tom. It was my little rebellion.
The airport was a zoo—families everywhere, kids screaming. Lisa showed up, frazzled, pushing a giant stroller, her baby fussing, her five-year-old whining about a lost toy. She had that panicked look when her plans unravel. I waited, cool and collected. Before boarding, I said, “By the way, I’m in business class.” Her eyes bulged. “You’re joking,” she said. I shrugged, “I said I wasn’t babysitting.” She yelled, “That’s so unfair! Family helps family!” I replied, “I’m helping myself.” Then I headed to my gate.
In business class, I sank into a soft seat, sipping soda as a flight attendant handed me a warm towel. I peeked at Lisa in coach, squished with her kids, Tom uselessly juggling bags. She shot me a nasty look, but I smiled back. Mid-flight, a flight attendant said, “A woman in coach wants you to swap or help with her baby.” I grinned, “No way. I’m staying here.” I turned up my music, enjoying the quiet.
I ate a tasty meal—steak, salad, and ice cream—while watching a comedy. Lisa’s kids’ cries drifted through, and I saw her son sprint past, Tom trailing. Lisa looked wrecked, arguing with Tom while holding the baby. I stayed put. At baggage claim, Lisa, a mess with a broken stroller, asked, “No shame?” I smirked, “Nope. I’m finally free.” This flight showed me my needs matter, and that’s worth more than her guilt trips.