I tried to be patient. After all, it was just a kid. But ten minutes turned into twenty, and the constant thumping made it impossible to read, rest, or even think. My dad, sitting beside me by the window, noticed my frustration and gave me that calm, knowing look he always had—the kind that said, let me handle this.

He leaned forward slightly, turned around, and said with his usual politeness, “Excuse me, would you mind asking your son to stop kicking the seat? It’s been happening for a while.”

The father barely looked up. “He’s just a kid,” he said flatly. The mother offered a dismissive smile. “He’ll stop soon.”

But he didn’t.

In fact, the kicks got harder, more deliberate, as if the boy had decided it was a game now—how many times could he