It was supposed to be a peaceful flight home—a long day of travel, a quiet evening ahead, and nothing but a few hours between us and the comfort of our own beds. The plane had just reached cruising altitude, and I had pulled out a book, ready to settle in. Then, without warning, a small jolt hit the back of my seat. I brushed it off, assuming it was turbulence. But seconds later, it came again. And again. And again.

I turned slightly and realized what was happening. A little boy, maybe six or seven, sat directly behind me, swinging his legs like a drummer testing his rhythm. Each kick hit my seat with perfect, irritating precision. His parents sat beside him, completely unfazed—his father staring at his phone, his mother scrolling through a tablet as if nothing in the world could disturb her digital peace. Continues…