Flying with kids is never easy, no matter how much planning you do. I had learned that the hard way when my daughter was younger, screaming fits, spilled juice, the whole row glaring at you like you’re the reason civilization is crumbling.
By the time she was eight, though, I thought we had a system down. Snacks? Packed. Headphones? Check. A fully charged iPad loaded with movies, games, and drawing apps? Absolutely.
That iPad wasn’t just a screen; it was my daughter’s safe place. She’d had it since she was six, a gift from my late husband who had insisted she needed something of her own to keep her entertained when life got overwhelming.
He’d passed away the year before, and though she didn’t talk about it often, I knew that watching the movies they used to enjoy together—animated classics, silly cartoons—helped her feel like he was still close by. The iPad wasn’t new or fancy anymore, but it was hers, and it meant the world to her.
We were flying cross-country to visit my sister, a trip I’d been dreading because I knew how exhausting five hours in a cramped airplane could be. Still, my daughter was excited. She hugged her backpack like it held treasure, and in a way, it did.
The first hour of the flight went smoothly. She had her headphones on, happily watching a movie, munching on pretzels. I was starting to relax, thinking maybe, just maybe, we’d make it through without incident. That’s when the storm rolled in, though not outside the plane.
It started with the shriek of a boy a few rows behind us. I turned my head, and there he was: maybe six years old, red-faced, fists pounding the seatback in front of him. His mother sat beside him, scrolling on her phone as if she couldn’t hear a thing.
Passengers began exchanging looks, sighing, shifting in their seats. The flight attendant gave a polite but pointed request for the boy to calm down, which the mother brushed off with a dismissive wave.
The boy wanted something that much was clear. “Mine!” he screamed, kicking his tray table. “I want it now!”
I tried to ignore it, focusing on my daughter’s calm little bubble. But the universe had other plans.
After another round of screeching, the entitled mom suddenly stood up, grabbed her son’s arm, and dragged him down the aisle. I thought she was heading to the restroom or maybe to let him walk off some energy. Instead, she stopped right next to us.
“Excuse me,” she said in a voice coated with fake sweetness. “Can my son borrow your iPad for a little while? He’s bored, and it’ll calm him down.”
My daughter immediately hugged the device closer to her chest, shaking her head. I gave the woman a polite but firm smile. “I’m sorry, but that’s her iPad. She doesn’t share it with strangers.”
The woman’s expression hardened. “They’re just kids. What’s the big deal? He’ll only use it for a few minutes.”
“I’m afraid the answer is no,” I replied evenly. “She needs it to stay calm, too. We all do, don’t we?”
That should have been the end of it. But entitled people rarely take no as no.
She huffed, muttered something under her breath, and marched back to her seat. I thought it was over until ten minutes later, when I felt a shadow loom beside me. She was back, this time with her son in tow. He was still crying, demanding, “I want that one! I want it now!”
Before I could react, the woman reached out and snatched the iPad from my daughter’s hands. My little girl let out a startled cry, her face crumpling as if the ground had been ripped out from under her.
“Hey!” I snapped, half-rising from my seat. “Give that back right now!”
“She’ll survive,” the woman said coolly. “My son needs it more than she does.” She shoved the iPad into her boy’s hands.
He wailed even louder, throwing it down onto the floor of the aisle in frustration because it wasn’t showing his favorite game. I heard the sickening crack as it hit the hard plastic. The screen spiderwebbed instantly.
My daughter let out a sob that tore me apart. She reached down for the broken device, clutching it as tears streamed down her face. The mother just shrugged. “It’s just a tablet. Buy another one. Maybe next time you’ll teach her to share.”
For a moment, the plane seemed to freeze. I could feel the rage boiling in my chest, my hands trembling as I tried to keep myself from shouting something I couldn’t take back. But before I could speak, karma decided to step in.
The boy, unsatisfied with the cracked iPad, suddenly began thrashing in the aisle, flailing his arms. In the chaos, he knocked his mother’s phone right out of her hand. It hit the armrest of a nearby seat and snapped cleanly in two.
The look on her face was priceless. Pure panic. “No, no, no!” she gasped, scrambling on the floor to pick up the shattered pieces. “Oh my God, all my photos, my contacts, my work…”
Her son was still howling, now demanding a tablet that actually worked. She tried to shush him, but he slapped her arm away and screamed louder. The flight attendants hurried over, finally stepping in with firm voices. They told her to return to her seat immediately and control her child, or they’d have security waiting when we landed.
She sputtered, tried to argue, but when she saw the cold stares of the passengers around us, dozens of witnesses glaring at her entitled behavior, her bravado crumbled. She dragged her son back to her seat, clutching the broken phone like a lifeline.
Meanwhile, my daughter sat trembling, holding her ruined iPad. My heart ached for her. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, whispering soothing words. “I’ll fix it, sweetheart. I promise. It’s just a screen. We’ll make it right.”
The woman didn’t look back at us again. For the rest of the flight, she sat hunched over, her son still whining while she stared at her useless phone in horror. The passengers gave her no sympathy. The man in the seat across the aisle even leaned over to whisper to me, “Karma’s fast at 30,000 feet.” I couldn’t help but smile through my anger.
When we landed, two security officers were indeed waiting at the gate. The flight attendants explained the situation, and several passengers, including myself, confirmed what had happened. The woman turned pale as they took her statement. I didn’t press charges, though the airline did insist she cover the cost of my daughter’s broken device.
Walking through the airport, my daughter clung to my hand, still sniffling but a little calmer. “Daddy gave it to me,” she whispered, stroking the cracked glass. “I don’t want a new one. I want this one.”
Her words broke my heart all over again. That night, at my sister’s house, I carefully backed up everything on the iPad and found a repair shop that promised to restore it to working order. When I handed it back to her, the screen whole again, the relief on her face was worth every penny.
As for the entitled mom, I never saw her again. But I can only imagine the headache she faced, losing her phone, dealing with her son’s tantrums without a screen to shove in front of him, and knowing an entire plane full of people had witnessed her cruelty.
I didn’t need to say anything more. The universe had spoken on my behalf.
And I learned something too: sometimes you don’t have to fight every battle with raised fists or angry words. Sometimes you just have to hold your ground, protect the ones you love, and let karma handle the rest.
Because, as it turns out, karma doesn’t need a timetable. It shows up whenever it wants, sometimes even at 30,000 feet.
