I was flying with my 5-year-old, Ella, and she was happily watching something on her iPad with headphones on.
Across the aisle was this boy about the same age, but he kept eyeing Ella’s screen. His whining got louder, and his mom, who I’ll call Entitled Mom (EM), finally tapped me on the shoulder.
“We’re being responsible and not giving our son any screen time this trip. Can you put the iPad away? It’s upsetting him.” I was stunned. “No, sorry. My daughter’s calm and enjoying her show.” EM’s smile dropped fast.
“Wow, so you’d rather ruin our family trip than take a break from your kid’s precious screen?” She muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “Some parents can’t say no these days. It’s no wonder kids are spoiled.” I ignored her, but halfway through the flight, her son threw a bigger tantrum.
And then, EM “accidentally” knocked over Ella’s tray, sending the iPad crashing to the floor! “Oops, so clumsy of me!” she said, smirking. Ella burst into tears, and I was boiling inside, but what could I do?
EM acted like it was an accident, playing innocent the whole time. I took a deep breath and decided to focus on calming Ella down. I figured karma would catch up with EM soon enough. And it did, sooner than I expected.
Not long after the “accident,” her son started crying again—but this time, not out of boredom. He was holding his stomach, saying it hurt really bad. At first, EM just hushed him, clearly annoyed. But his crying only got louder, and then he started throwing up. A lot.
The flight attendants rushed over. People were trying to help. It was chaos.
EM panicked. Suddenly, she wasn’t smug anymore. She was begging for help, yelling for the crew, asking if there was a doctor on board.
That’s when a man in the row behind me stood up—tall, calm, maybe mid-40s, wearing a hoodie and glasses. “I’m a pediatric nurse,” he said.
He knelt down and checked on the boy. After a few questions, he gently said, “It might be food poisoning. He needs fluids and rest, but we’ll keep him comfortable until we land.”
They laid the boy across EM’s lap. She looked completely rattled. And then she looked over at me. Her expression wasn’t smug anymore. It was tired. Frantic. Guilty, maybe. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
The nurse, whose name I later learned was Corbin, handed her a small juice box from his bag. “Keep him sipping this. Tiny sips. It’ll help.”
She nodded. Then she whispered something I almost didn’t hear: “I was just trying to do the right thing.”
