My Sister Demanded I Babysit Her Kids on a 10-Hour Flight, Her Tantrum at Boarding Was My Reward
I’ve babysat during weddings, held down screaming toddlers at restaurants, and changed diapers on the side of a highway. But when my sister tried to assign me babysitting duties on a 10-hour flight to Rome? That was the moment I finally put my foot down—at 30,000 feet.
It started a week before takeoff. My sister called. No greeting, no pleasantries, just: “Hey, just so you know, you’re watching the kids on the plane.”
Excuse me?
“You know I can’t juggle both of them for that long,” she continued, barely taking a breath. “You don’t have kids. I need time with James. This trip matters more to me.”
She hung up without waiting for my response.
That’s always been her way. Ever since her divorce, she’s made me her default backup. It didn’t matter that we were all flying together, thanks to our parents’ generosity. What mattered to her was that I’d handle the kids while she played newlywed with her boyfriend.
But not this time.
This time, I made a quiet phone call of my own—to the airline. I asked about upgrades. Turns out, I could move to business class for just $50 and a handful of miles. I booked it on the spot.
And I didn’t say a word to her.
I let her believe I’d be there in economy, helping wrangle a toddler and a screaming infant while she cuddled up with James.
The day of the flight, she arrived at the gate a hurricane of chaos—diaper bags everywhere, the stroller stuck, her five-year-old howling about a missing toy. She looked at me with wild eyes, expecting backup.
That’s when I smiled and calmly said, “By the way, I upgraded. I’ll be in business class.”
Her jaw dropped.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” I replied. “Figured you had it under control.”
Her tantrum started right there in the boarding line. “This is so selfish! You’re abandoning me with the kids?! You KNEW I needed help!”
“I told you I wouldn’t do it. You didn’t listen,” I said, handing over my boarding pass and gliding into the business cabin like a queen returning to her castle.
While she fought with sippy cups and wrangled crayons, I sipped champagne, stretched out under a blanket, and listened to jazz through noise-canceling headphones.
Halfway into the flight, a flight attendant tapped me on the shoulder. “There’s a woman in 34B asking if you could help with the baby.”
I took a breath, smiled, and said, “No, thank you. I’m exactly where I need to be.”
I returned to my movie while chaos erupted behind me—children screaming, snacks flying, and James fumbling helplessly in the aisle. I never looked back.
When we landed in Rome, I found my luggage waiting neatly at baggage claim. My sister stumbled in ten minutes later, dragging two overtired kids, spit-up on her blouse, and a stroller missing a wheel.
“You didn’t feel guilty?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“Nope,” I said, sliding on my sunglasses. “I felt free.”
And I did.