A Lesson Served at 30,000 Feet

The flight dragged on. Between spilled juice boxes and endless “Are we there yet?” choruses, I managed to catch a glimpse of Clark living his best life — wine glass in hand, smug as ever.

I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

When the first-class attendants began serving their five-course meals, I could practically smell the self-importance wafting through the cabin. Clark ordered everything. His mother laughed loudly. They looked like royalty.

Then came the moment I’d been waiting for. Clark patted his pocket, frowned, patted again. His smile vanished. Within minutes, he was rifling through his things like a man searching for oxygen.

Finally, he stumbled down the aisle toward me, looking frantic. “Soph, do you have any cash? I can’t find my wallet!”

I blinked innocently. “Oh no! How much do you need?”

“About $1,500,” he whispered.

I almost laughed out loud. “For what, caviar and a moon rock?”

“It’s the in-flight tab. Just—please—do you have it?”

“I might have $200,” I said sweetly. “But doesn’t your mom have her card?”

The flicker of dread on his face was pure cinematic gold. Asking her for help was apparently worse than hunger.

By the time we landed, first class was noticeably quieter. Clark and Nadia had spent the rest of the flight in awkward silence, chewing on humility instead of filet mignon.

He tried one last time: “Did you see my wallet?”

I smiled gently. “Maybe you left it at home?”

He sighed. “Yeah… maybe.”

As we stepped off the plane, I carried our sleepy kids while he dragged his pride behind him. For once, the weight of the bags didn’t bother me — justice travels light.

And that day, Clark learned something first class never teaches: comfort means nothing if you forget who you’re supposed to share it with.