I’d chosen a window seat weeks in advance — a small reward to myself after a long, demanding year. As I settled in, a little girl, maybe seven years old, took the seat beside me with her father.

She kept glancing longingly at the window, her eyes wide with wonder. When the plane began to taxi, she started to cry softly, clearly wishing she could see outside.

Her father leaned over and, with a kind tone, asked if I’d be willing to switch seats so she could have the view. I smiled gently and explained that I’d reserved this spot intentionally — it was something I’d looked forward to. He sighed, then muttered under his breath, “You’re a grown woman, but still very immature.” The words stung, but I stayed where I was.

The girl’s quiet sobs continued through takeoff, casting a layer of discomfort over the cabin. I felt it too — the tension, the judgment, the weight of being misunderstood.