I was on a 6-hour flight. I decided to try to get some sleep and reclined my seat hard. The pregnant woman behind me yelled, “I can’t breathe!”
I snapped, “Then fly first class!”
She went silent.
After landing, a flight attendant approached me quietly and firmly said, “Sir, there’s something you might want to check.”
She handed me a folded note. It was written on the back of a boarding pass. In slanted handwriting, it read:
“I don’t expect kindness from strangers, but I hoped for a little more humanity.
I’m 33 weeks pregnant, traveling alone after attending my mother’s funeral. I wasn’t asking for luxury—just air. I forgive you, but I hope you think twice next time.”
I just sat there, staring at the paper.
My throat went dry. I hadn’t noticed the black circles under her eyes. I hadn’t noticed the trembling in her voice.
I just heard inconvenience. At the baggage carousel, I saw her standing by herself. She had a worn backpack slung over one shoulder and was adjusting the waistband of her maternity jeans like it was cutting into her.
I wanted to go up to her. To say something. Anything.
But she looked so far away in that moment—like she was somewhere else entirely. I never got the chance. She was gone before my bag hit the belt.
Two weeks passed, but that note haunted me. I told my sister about it, and she gave me a look I’ll never forget. “Do you remember when I was pregnant with Micah?
You snapped at the woman in the grocery store because she took the last cart and you thought she was cutting. You’ve got a pattern, Eren.”
Eren. That’s me.
And yeah… she was right. Something in me was wired to react, not reflect. I didn’t slow down.
I didn’t ask. I just assumed. I assumed the woman behind me was being dramatic.
I assumed my comfort mattered more than her space. I assumed it was okay to talk down to someone just because they inconvenienced me. And then I assumed I could move on without it bothering me.
But it did. Enough that I did something I don’t usually do. I wrote a public post on my local community page:
“To the pregnant woman on Flight 6783 from Denver to Raleigh: I’m sorry.
I was rude. I was dismissive. I didn’t see your pain, and I didn’t even try.
If anyone knows her, or if by some chance you’re reading this—thank you for your grace. I’ll do better.”
I didn’t expect much. But three days later, someone messaged me.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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