I’ve changed diapers at weddings, soothed tantrums during road trips, and played emergency nanny more times than I can count. But during a 10-hour flight to Rome, I finally said no — and meant it. A week before our family trip, my sister called — no greeting, no small talk. Just:
“Hey, you’re watching the kids on the flight.” Not a request. A declaration. Her logic? I’m single, child-free, and had no one to fuss over — unlike her, newly divorced and clinging to her boyfriend like he was a lifeboat.
She wanted ten hours of uninterrupted flirting while I wrangled her kids. I told her I wasn’t comfortable babysitting mid-flight. She scoffed and hung up. So I did something I’ve never done before — I upgraded to business class with my miles. Quietly. No announcement. No warning.
At the airport, she arrived in chaos: stroller overloaded, diaper bags slipping, one kid wailing, the other already having a meltdown. I waited until boarding.