Then, cool and calm, I said, “By the way, I’ll be in business class.” She blinked, stunned. “What?! That’s so selfish!” I just smiled. “I told you I didn’t want to be your nanny.” She was furious — hurling guilt like confetti — but I walked away, my boarding pass scanning with a satisfying beep.
In business class, I sipped champagne, reclined my seat, and put on noise-canceling headphones. Bliss. Meanwhile, I caught glimpses of chaos through the curtain — her juggling the baby, her boyfriend fumbling with bags, her five-year-old sprinting down the aisle like a maniac.
At one point, a flight attendant approached me.“Your sister’s asking if you’ll swap seats or help for a bit.” I didn’t even blink. “No, thank you. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
When we landed, she looked wrecked — hair frizzy, one sock missing, spit-up on her shoulder. “You didn’t feel guilty?” she asked. I slipped on my sunglasses and said, “Nope. I finally felt free.”