The flight was already hell. Ten hours. Ten long, excruciating hours across an ocean with a spirited, almost-four-year-old. My daughter, bless her cotton socks, had been a trooper for the first six, but the last four were a slow descent into chaos. My only lifeline, my only hope for a moment’s peace, was her ancient, battle-scarred iPad. It was loaded with Peppa Pig, Paw Patrol, and enough toddler games to sedate a small army.
We were nearing descent, the cabin lights dim, everyone bracing for landing. My daughter was in that blissful, hypnotized state, eyes glued to the screen, tiny headphones on. I actually dared to breathe, to close my eyes for a precious minute. That’s when the elbow hit me.
I opened my eyes to see a woman in the aisle seat, peering over at my daughter’s screen. Her own child, maybe five or six, was in the seat next to her, kicking the seat in front, loudly complaining about being bored. I’d heard them for hours, the constant whining, the mother’s half-hearted attempts at placation.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice dripping with an entitlement I could feel like a physical presence. “My son is bored. Could you let him play with your daughter’s tablet for a bit?”
A hospital’s ’emergency’ sign | Source: Pexels
I blinked, genuinely surprised. Did she just ask that? “I’m sorry,” I replied, trying to be polite. “She’s almost asleep, and this is the only thing keeping her calm right now. We only have about twenty minutes left.”
“But my son is bored!” she insisted, louder this time. “He hasn’t had any screen time all flight! It’s not fair that your daughter gets to watch cartoons and mine doesn’t. Just for a few minutes.” Her son whined dramatically, louder still, sensing a potential win.
My patience, already wafer-thin from the journey, snapped a little. “No,” I said, my voice firm. “It’s hers. And we’re landing soon. Maybe you could talk to him or read a book?”
That’s when it happened. She leaned over, her face contorted into a sneer, and without a word, she snatched the iPad right out of my daughter’s hands. My daughter’s eyes widened, her mouth opened in a silent scream before the actual sound caught up.
“HEY!” I yelled, reaching for it, but she was faster. Her son, emboldened, grabbed at it too, and between the two of them, wrestling over it, the iPad slipped. It hit the armrest with a sickening CRACK, then bounced to the floor. The screen went black. A spiderweb of shattered glass spread across the display, a perfect, brutal ruin.
My daughter, whose entire world had just gone dark, let out a piercing, heartbroken wail. It wasn’t just a cry; it was a sound of absolute, utter devastation. The kind that makes every parent’s stomach clench.
“LOOK WHAT YOU DID!” I shrieked, my voice trembling with a mix of fury and despair. The flight attendant rushed over, attracted by the noise. The woman, meanwhile, looked at the broken tablet, then at her now crying child, and had the gall to say, “Well, it wouldn’t have broken if you’d just shared, would it?”
A receptionist at a hospital | Source: Pexels
I was shaking. I wanted to throttle her. The flight attendant intervened, took statements, promised to report it. But my daughter’s tears, her heartbroken “My Peppa Piggy is broken, Mama,” were all that mattered. I held her, stroking her hair, promising to fix it, knowing I couldn’t. It was ancient, replaced by a newer model I’d left at home, but it was hers. Her comfort. Her peace. Shattered.
The rest of the flight was a blur of righteous indignation and quiet, simmering rage. I wished her bad karma. I wished her trip would be ruined. I wished something awful would happen to her, just so she’d know how it felt. I kept glancing at her, this entitled, selfish woman, feeling a burning hatred I rarely allowed myself. Just wait, I thought. Karma’s a bitch.
We finally landed. The cabin emptied slowly. I gathered our things, my daughter still sniffling, clutching the dead tablet like a precious, broken bird. I kept an eye on the woman. She was collecting her bags from the overhead compartment, her son still a restless bundle of energy.
As we shuffled off the plane and into the chaotic bustle of baggage claim, I spotted her again. She was standing by the carousel, scanning the crowd, her son pulling at her sleeve. Good, I thought, a bitter satisfaction curling in my gut. I hope her luggage is lost. I hope she has a terrible time.
Then I saw him.
He was walking towards her, a big smile on his face, a carry-on slung over his shoulder. My stomach dropped. No. It couldn’t be. My breath hitched. He was wearing the dark blue polo shirt I’d bought him for his birthday. The silver watch, a graduation gift from years ago, glinted on his wrist.
A building’s corridor | Source: Pexels
He reached her, and she lit up, throwing her arms around him. He kissed her forehead, then bent down, scooping her son into a big hug. The child, the one who’d pulled at the iPad, the one she’d claimed was “her son,” giggled into his shoulder. It was the kind of hug my husband gave our daughter.
My husband.
He was supposed to be picking me up. He’d texted just an hour ago, “Running a bit late, a meeting ran over, but I’m on my way.”
The world tilted. The air left my lungs. My daughter, still holding her broken iPad, looked up at me, sensing my sudden stillness. “Mama?” she whispered.
I couldn’t answer. My eyes were fixed on them. He was stroking her hair. He was laughing with her son. He was… He was a husband to her. A father to him.
The pieces of the puzzle weren’t just clicking into place; they were slamming into me, each one a physical blow. The “meeting” he’d been “stuck” in. The “business trips” that lasted an extra day. The way he sometimes looked distant, preoccupied.
The entitled mom. The woman who’d shattered my daughter’s iPad. She wasn’t just a random person. She was his other life. His secret. His betrayal.
The broken iPad, the outrage, the desperate wish for karma… it all dissolved into a searing, unimaginable pain. Karma didn’t come for her. Karma came for me. It ripped through my chest, tearing apart everything I thought I knew. The screen of my life, every memory, every promise, every whispered “I love you,” shattered into a million irreparable pieces. And it was all thanks to a broken Peppa Pig.
