I expected turbulence in the air, not in my marriage. One minute we were boarding a flight with diaper bags, strollers, and twin toddlers, and the next, my husband had vanished behind the curtain into business class, leaving me drowning in apple juice and chaos. He thought he had outsmarted me, but karma had already boarded that plane—and it had a front-row seat.

It was supposed to be our first real family vacation. Eric and I were flying to Florida to visit his parents in their pastel-colored retirement community near Tampa. His father had been counting down the days to meet his grandchildren, FaceTiming so often that our son Mason had started calling every elderly man “Papa.” Between the car seats, bags, and two squirming 18-month-olds, I was already sweating before we reached the gate.

While I was juggling wipes and snacks, Eric slipped away with a vague, “I’m just going to check something real quick.” I didn’t think much of it—I was too busy praying no one’s diaper exploded before takeoff. Moments later, as boarding began, the gate agent scanned his ticket and flashed him a too-bright smile. That’s when he turned to me with a smug little grin.

“Babe, I managed to snag an upgrade. I’ll see you on the other side. You’ll be fine with the kids, right?”

I actually laughed at first, thinking it was a joke. It wasn’t. Before I could even blink, he kissed my cheek and strutted into business class, disappearing behind the curtain like some kind of conquering hero. Meanwhile, I was left juggling two screaming toddlers, a collapsing stroller, and a diaper bag that felt heavier than my entire life.

By the time I collapsed into seat 32B, I was drenched in sweat and on the verge of tears. Ava immediately dumped apple juice in my lap while Mason decided his sippy cup was a projectile weapon. The man next to me lasted five minutes before flagging down a flight attendant to request a new seat. I didn’t blame him.

Then, my phone buzzed. It was Eric.

“Food is amazing up here. They even gave me a warm towel 😍.”

I stared at the message, trying not to laugh hysterically as I wiped spit-up off my shirt with a napkin that smelled faintly of disinfectant. Meanwhile, my father-in-law texted: “Send me a video of my grandbabies on the plane! I want to see them flying like big kids!”

So I did. I recorded Ava pounding on the tray table like a DJ and Mason gnawing on his stuffed giraffe while I sat pale, frazzled, and hanging on by a thread. I sent it to him without a word. Seconds later, Eric replied with a single thumbs-up emoji.

When we landed, I stumbled off the plane with three bags and two overtired toddlers. Eric sauntered out behind me, yawning and stretching as if he had just come from a spa retreat.

“Man, that was a great flight,” he said. “Did you try the pretzels? Oh wait…” He chuckled at his own joke.