I gaped at the plane tickets, my stomach sinking.
*One first-class seat… for James. One for his mum, Margaret. Three economy tickets… for me and the kids.*
For a second, I thought it must’ve been a glitch. Maybe he’d ticked the wrong box. Maybe the airline mixed things up. But when I asked James, he just grinned like it was perfectly normal.
*“Love, Mum’s got a dodgy back,”* he said. *“And, well, I didn’t want her sitting alone. Besides, you and the kids will be alright in economy. It’s only a seven-hour flight!”*
I was speechless. We’d been saving for ages for this family holiday to Edinburgh. It was meant to be special—our first trip abroad with the kids, Emily (6) and Oliver (9). And now, we were being split up?
I glanced at them, babbling about Edinburgh Castle and Loch Ness, too thrilled to notice my quiet dread. I plastered on a smile and swallowed hard.
*“Alright,”* I murmured. *“If that’s what you want.”*
The flight was crammed. Economy seats were squashed, Emily dozing on my lap while Oliver fidgeted by the window. Meanwhile, I pictured James up front with his mum, stretched out with a whiskey, completely oblivious.
I felt tiny. Not just in the cramped seat—but like an afterthought.
At baggage claim, James bounced over, looking annoyingly refreshed.
*“Not too grim, was it?”* he said, handing me a tepid tea like some sort of peace offering.
I bit my tongue—no scene in front of the kids. But something inside me flickered.
The rest of the trip? Awkward.
James and Margaret whisked off for fancy cream teas and antique hunts while I dragged the kids through museums and parks. At first, I tried including them.
*“We’re hitting the Royal Mile later—fancy joining?”*
*“Oh, darling, we’ve booked The Balmoral,”* Margaret said, patting my wrist like I was the hired help.
And James? Just shrugged.
*“Let Mum enjoy herself. You lot do your bit, we’ll do ours.”*
*Our bit?* Wasn’t this supposed to be *our* holiday?
At night, I scribbled in a notebook—every snub, every time James sidelined me, every *“Actually, dear…”* from Margaret about how I handled the kids. Like I was just the unpaid babysitter on *their* trip.
On the way home, they were back in first class. This time, I didn’t ask. Just took my seat and let the quiet sting.
Then, mid-flight, disaster. Oliver turned green from turbulence and was sick everywhere. I was scrambling with wet wipes, soothing Emily who’d started crying from the smell, juggling a sick bag while rubbing Oliver’s back.
A stewardess helped, but it took ages to clean up. My jumper was ruined, my eyes gritty with tiredness.
Then—I spotted James. He’d peeked through the curtain, taken one look at the carnage, and… vanished.
Not a word. Not a hand. Just gone.
And right then, it hit me.
This wasn’t about a holiday. It was about where we stood.
Back home, James gushed about how *“brilliant”* the trip was, posting snaps of him and Margaret at fancy cafés—*“Nothing like family time!”* Not a single photo of me or the kids.
I stayed quiet. Needed to think.
Then, one Sunday morning over toast, I slid my notebook across the table.
*“James,”* I said. *“Do you even see what you did?”*
He blinked.
*“What d’you mean?”*
He flipped through the pages—every tiny hurt, every time he’d left us behind. His face fell.
*“I didn’t mean to… I just wanted Mum to have a nice time—”*
*“And what about *us*?”* I asked. *“While you were upstairs with champagne, I was elbow-deep in sick bags. Did that even cross your mind?”*
Silence.
*“I thought… you didn’t mind. You never said.”*
I let out a hollow laugh.
*“James, I shouldn’t *have* to say it to matter.”*
He looked down, properly ashamed.
*“You’re right. I was a git. I see that now.”*
I waited. Words were easy—I needed proof.
Weeks later, he surprised me: a weekend in the Lake District, just us. He’d roped his sister into babysitting, planned walks, even wrote a note:
*“I want to learn how to holiday with *you*. Just us. No frills, no divisions—side by side.”*
It wasn’t posh. No Michelin stars. But we walked. We cooked. We *talked*. For the first time in years, I felt like he *saw* me.
Back home, things shifted. He took the kids out solo. Asked my opinion before making plans. When Margaret nitpicked, he’d gently say, *“She’s my wife, Mum.”*
The real test came six months later—booking our next holiday, to Cornwall.
At check-in, the agent smiled. *“Five first-class tickets—all together.”*
I stared at James.
*“You didn’t *have* to—”*
*“Course I did,”* he said. *“Because we’re a team.”*
That miserable Edinburgh trip was the jolt we needed.
Sometimes, people don’t realise they’re hurting you—not from malice, but thoughtlessness. And sometimes, love means saying it. Not with shouting, but with honesty.
I still have that notebook. Not to dwell, but to remember: Never settle for being sidelined. Speak up. Claim your place—whether at the table or 30,000 feet up.
Because love shouldn’t come with separate tickets.
