I was on a long-haul flight that I’d been dreading for weeks. The kind that stretches across time zones and leaves you feeling wrung out before you even arrive. To make it bearable, I’d paid extra—quite a lot extra, actually—to upgrade to a business-class seat.

It wasn’t a casual splurge. I’d saved for it, justified it to myself, and told myself I deserved a little comfort this once. When I boarded, the cabin felt calm and orderly.

I found my seat, stowed my bag, buckled up, and let out a quiet breath of relief. The wider space, the legroom, the promise of being able to sleep—it already felt worth it. That’s when a shadow fell across my row.

I looked up to see a heavily pregnant woman standing beside my seat, one hand braced on the armrest, the other on her lower back. She didn’t smile or hesitate. She simply looked at me and said, firmly, “You need to get up.

Pregnant women have priority.”