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I turned toward the window, staring out at the tarmac as the engines roared to life. I could feel the warmth of embarrassment creeping up my neck, that familiar guilt that comes from being misunderstood.
I wanted to explain—to tell him about the long hours, the exhaustion, the small comfort I had promised myself with this seat. But I said nothing. I simply looked out, feeling smaller with every passing second.
Beside me, the little girl whimpered softly. Her father handed her a tablet, sighing dramatically. I could almost hear the unspoken accusation hanging in the air.
It would have been easier to give in—to trade my comfort for peace, to avoid the tension of being the “difficult one.”
But something inside me whispered, You’re allowed to keep what you’ve chosen.
A Quiet Moment of Kindness
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