The recycled air of the cabin always smelled of a strange mix of jet fuel and anticipation, but today, at seven months pregnant, it just smelled like a headache. My lower back was a constant, throbbing reminder that my center of gravity had moved to a different zip code, and my ankles had officially resigned from their post, swelling until they resembled overstuffed sausages.
“Just get to the door, Summer,” I whispered to myself, clutching my “Honest Mom’s Guide” like a holy relic. “Pasta. Hank. Faded blue sweatshirt. Just six hours of airtime to go.”
I waddled—there is no other word for it—down the narrow aisle of the Boeing 737, maneuvering my bump past headrests until I reached Row 14. That’s where I found her.
She didn’t have a name tag, but her designer tote was embossed with a gold-script Nancy. She hadn’t just taken her seat; she had colonized the entire row. Her sunglasses were perched atop a salon-perfect blowout, and she was mid-rant into a phone pressed against her ear.
“No, Rachel,” she barked, her voice cutting through the hum of the boarding process. “If they downgrade my suite again, I will escalate. I’m not dealing with that level of incompetence today. It’s a basic human right to have a balcony.”
She didn’t look up as I approached. She didn’t even shift her tote, which was currently buckled into the middle seat—my seat. I stood there, shifting my weight from one aching foot to the other, until I cleared my throat.
“Excuse me? I think I’m in 14B.”
Nancy flicked her eyes toward me, a slow, judgmental scan that took in my compression socks and my oversized “MAMA” t-shirt. She sighed, a long, theatrical sound of a woman martyred by the existence of others. Without ending her call, she grabbed her tote and shoved it halfway into my legroom.
“I’ll call you back,” she snapped into the phone. She plopped down, immediately cranking the overhead vent toward me, then shutting it off with a click. “It’s freezing in here. You’d think for the price of a ticket, they’d treat frequent flyers like humans.”
I tried for a polite smile. “I have an extra sweater if you’re cold? Traveling while pregnant is tough, I’m actually a bit warm.”
Nancy rolled her eyes, already jabbing the call button. Ding.
Stacey, a flight attendant with the patient eyes of a saint, appeared within seconds. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Can you turn the air down and bring me a sparkling water, no ice?” Nancy demanded. “And a blanket—preferably not one someone else has used. I’m allergic to cheap detergent.”
Stacey’s smile remained fixed. “I’ll see what I can do, ma’am.” As she walked away, Nancy turned to me, her jacket flopping over the armrest and onto my lap.
“Some people are so sensitive,” she muttered under her breath.
I gently folded her jacket back onto her side. “Sorry, I just need a little space for the baby.”
She snorted and turned away. I pressed a hand to my stomach, feeling a sharp kick against my ribs. I know, kiddo, I thought. Mom’s almost home.
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