I stare at the plane tickets in disbelief.
“One first-class seat… for James. One for his mother, Margaret. Three economy tickets… for me and the children.”
At first, I think it must be an error. Perhaps he selected the wrong option. Maybe the airline made a mistake. But no—when I ask James about it, he grins as if it’s perfectly reasonable.
“Darling, Mum has terrible arthritis,” he says. “I thought I should keep her company. Besides, you and the kids will manage fine back there. It’s only a six-hour flight!”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. We’d saved for months for this family holiday to Edinburgh. It was meant to be special—our first trip abroad with Sophie (6) and Oliver (9). And now, we’re being separated?
I glance at the children. They’re too excited to sense the tension, babbling about Edinburgh Castle and red phone boxes. I force a smile and push down the lump in my throat.
“Alright,” I say softly. “If that’s what you’ve arranged.”
The flight is full. Economy is cramped, with Sophie asleep on my lap while Oliver fidgets by the window. Meanwhile, I picture James up front with his mother, champagne in hand, reclined comfortably with noise-cancelling headphones.
I feel invisible. Not just physically, but as if I don’t matter. An afterthought.
When we land, James meets us at baggage reclaim, looking refreshed and cheerful.
“Not so awful, was it?” he says, handing me a tepid tea like it makes up for everything.
I don’t argue at the airport, not with the children nearby, so I just nod. But inside, something has changed.
The rest of the holiday is, frankly, strained.
James and his mother go off for posh lunches and antique browsing while I take the kids to castles and parks. At first, I try to include them.
“We’re visiting the Royal Mile this afternoon—want to join?”
“Oh, love, we’ve booked a reservation at The Witchery,” Margaret replies, patting my hand as though I’m her secretary, not her daughter-in-law.
And James? He shrugs.
“Let Mum enjoy herself. You and the kids have your fun, and we’ll have ours.”
Our fun? Wasn’t this meant to be a family trip?
At night, I scribble in a notebook, recording every moment I feel excluded. Every time James decides without me. Every time his mother criticises how I handle the children. Every time I feel like the unpaid nanny on someone else’s holiday.
On the return flight, James and Margaret take first class again. This time, I don’t ask. I just smile at the cabin crew, settle in with the children, and let the quiet between us say more than any argument could.
Then, halfway through the flight, disaster strikes. Oliver gets airsick. Turbulence shakes the cabin, and he vomits all over himself and the seat.
I scramble for wet wipes and tissues. Sophie starts crying because the smell makes her queasy. I clutch a sick bag in one hand, rub Oliver’s back with the other, and try to soothe Sophie with my voice alone.
A flight attendant helps, but cleaning up takes ages. My eyes sting from exhaustion, and my top is splattered with Ribena and something unrecognisable.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot James peeking through the curtain dividing first class. He sees the mess, hesitates, then slips away without a word.
He doesn’t step in. Doesn’t offer to help. Just leaves.
In that moment, it hits me.
This isn’t about a holiday. It’s about priorities.
Back home, James gushes about the “brilliant” trip. He posts photos of fine dining with his mother, captioned “Nothing like family time.” Not a single picture of me or the kids.
At first, I say nothing. I need to think. To breathe.
Then one Saturday morning, I sit across from him at the kitchen table.
“James,” I say. “Do you even realise what you did?”
He glances up from his phone, puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
I slide him the notebook. Page after page of quiet hurts. Of being sidelined. Of handling everything while he lived in a bubble. He reads slowly, brow furrowed.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he finally says. “I just wanted Mum to have a nice time…”
“And what about me?” I ask. “What about your children? What about the fact I juggled everything while you sat up front drinking wine?”
There’s a long pause.
“I thought… I thought you didn’t mind. You never said anything.”
I laugh softly—not from amusement, but disbelief.
“James, I shouldn’t have to beg to be considered.”
He looks down, shame creeping in.
“You’re right. I was selfish. I didn’t see it then, but I do now.”
I don’t answer straight away. I want to believe him—but words mean little without change.
A few weeks later, James surprises me. He’s booked a weekend in the Lake District—just the two of us. He arranged for his sister to watch the kids, planned every detail, and even wrote a handwritten note:
“I want to learn how to holiday with you properly. Just us. No distractions. No first class, no economy—just side by side.”
It’s thoughtful. Sincere.
The trip isn’t fancy. No Michelin stars or fancy spas. But we hike. We cook together. We talk. For the first time in ages, I feel valued.
Back home, James starts making small changes. He takes the kids out solo. He checks with me before making plans. When his mother makes a snide remark, he quietly reminds her I’m his wife—his equal.
The biggest shift comes months later, when we book our next holiday—Cornwall.
At check-in, the agent smiles. “I’ve got four first-class tickets here. All together.”
I turn to James, surprised.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did,” he says. “Because you matter. Because we’re a team.”
Looking back, that miserable Edinburgh trip was the jolt we needed.
Sometimes, people hurt you—not out of malice, but thoughtlessness. And sometimes, love means speaking up. Not with anger, but honesty.
I still have that notebook. I rarely read it, but I keep it as a reminder: Never settle for being treated as less. Claim your place—whether at the table or on the plane.
Because love shouldn’t come with separate tickets.
