I gaped at the plane tickets in shock.
“One first-class seat… for James. One for his mother, Margaret. Three economy tickets… for me and the children.”
At first, I assumed it was an error. Perhaps he selected the wrong option. Maybe the airline had mixed things up. But no—when I asked James about it, he grinned as if it were perfectly reasonable.
“Love, Mum has a dodgy hip,” he explained. “And, well, I wanted to keep her company. Besides, you and the kids will be alright back there. It’s only a seven-hour flight!”
I was speechless. We’d saved for ages for this family holiday to Edinburgh. It was meant to be a wonderful trip—the first overseas adventure with our daughters, Sophie (6) and Emma (9). And now, we were being separated?
I glanced at the girls. Too excited to sense the strain, they chattered about Edinburgh Castle and red telephone boxes. I forced a smile and pushed down the tightness in my chest.
“Fine,” I murmured. “If that’s what you’ve decided.”
The flight was heaving. The economy seats were snug, with Sophie dozing on my lap while Emma wriggled by the window. Meanwhile, I pictured James up front with his mother, fine wine in hand, reclined comfortably with posh headphones on.
I felt invisible. Not just in space, but in his mind. An afterthought.
At baggage claim, James met us, looking refreshed and chipper.
“Not too shabby, eh?” he said, passing me a tepid tea like it made amends.
I didn’t want a row at the airport, especially not in front of the girls, so I just nodded. But inside, something had changed.
The rest of the holiday was strained.
James and his mother went off for cream teas and antique hunts while I took the girls to castles and parks. At first, I tried to include them.
“We’re off to see Holyrood Palace this afternoon—fancy joining?”
“Oh, darling, we’ve booked a table at The Witchery,” Margaret replied, patting my arm as if I were her helper, not her daughter-in-law.
And James? He merely shrugged.
“Let Mum enjoy herself. You and the girls do your bit, we’ll do ours.”
Our bit? Wasn’t this supposed to be a family trip?
I began writing in a diary at night, noting every slight. Every time James made a choice without me. Every time his mother corrected my parenting. Every time I felt like the hired help on someone else’s getaway.
On the flight home, James and Margaret were in first class again. This time, I didn’t ask. I just settled in with the girls and let my silence say more than any words could.
Then, mid-flight, Emma fell ill. The rough air made her queasy, and she was sick all over herself and the seat.
I scrambled for tissues and wet wipes. Sophie started crying as the smell turned her stomach. I was holding a sick bag, rubbing Emma’s back, and trying to soothe Sophie—all at once.
A flight attendant helped, but it took ages to tidy up. My eyes stung from weariness, and my jumper was splattered with juice and worse.
Then, I spotted James by the curtain dividing the cabins. He peeked in, took in the mess, and quietly stepped back.
He said nothing. Didn’t lift a finger. Just walked away.
And in that instant, I understood.
This wasn’t about a holiday. This was about where his loyalties lay.
Back home, James raved about the “brilliant” trip. He shared snaps of fancy teas with his mum, captioned, “Nothing like family time.” Not one photo of me or the girls.
I stayed quiet at first. I needed space. Time to think.
Then one Sunday morning, I sat across from him at the breakfast table.
“James,” I said. “Do you even realise what you did?”
He glanced up from his paper, puzzled.
“What d’you mean?”
I passed him my diary. Page after page of little wounds. Of exclusion. Of managing everything while he lounged in luxury. He thumbed through it slowly, brow furrowed.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he finally admitted. “I just wanted Mum to be alright…”
“And what about me?” I asked. “What about your daughters? What about the fact I handled everything while you sat up front sipping champagne?”
A long silence followed.
“I thought… you didn’t mind. You never said.”
I let out a quiet laugh. Not from humour—from disbelief.
“James, I shouldn’t have to beg to be included.”
He dropped his gaze, shame creeping in.
“You’re right. I was being selfish. I didn’t see it then, but I do now.”
I waited before replying. Words were one thing—change was another.
A fortnight later, James surprised me. He’d booked a weekend in the Lake District—just us. His sister watched the girls, and he’d planned everything, even writing a note that said:
“I want to learn how to holiday with you properly. Just us. No distractions. No first class, no economy—just side by side.”
It was kind. And genuine.
The trip wasn’t lavish. No fancy meals or bellhops. But we walked the fells. Cooked together. Talked. For the first time in years, I felt valued.
At home, James slowly changed. He took the girls out alone. Asked my opinion before making plans. When his mother made a snipe, he gently reminded her that I was his wife—not her assistant.
The real shift came six months later when we booked our next big holiday—Cornwall.
At check-in, the clerk smiled. “I see four first-class tickets here. All together.”
I turned to James, stunned.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “Because you matter. And we’re a team.”
Looking back, that awful flight to Edinburgh was the jolt we needed.
Sometimes, people hurt you without realising—not from malice, but thoughtlessness. And sometimes, love means speaking up. Not with anger, but with truth.
I still have that diary. I don’t read it often, but I keep it as a reminder: Never accept being sidelined. Stand your ground. Claim your place—whether at the table or in the skies.
Because love should never come with separate tickets.
