**Diary Entry 25th June**
I expected turbulence on the flight, not in my marriage. One moment, we were herding our twin toddlers through Heathrow, laden with nappy bags and car seatsthe next, my husband disappeared behind that smug business-class curtain, leaving me knee-deep in chaos.
Ever had that nagging suspicion your other half is about to do something utterly daft, but you dismiss it? That was me at Terminal 3, baby wipes dangling from my pocket, one twin strapped to me, the other gumming my sunglasses to death.
This was meant to be our first proper family holidayme, Oliver, and our 18-month-olds, Poppy and Alfie. We were flying to Cornwall to visit his parents in their seaside retirement cottage. His dad had been counting the days, ringing us so often that Alfie now calls every bloke with a white beard Grandad.
We were already stretched thinnappy bags, pushchairs, the works. Then Oliver muttered, Just need to sort something, and vanished toward the check-in desk.
Did I suspect? Not a chance. I was too busy praying no nappy disasters struck before takeoff.
Then came boarding.
The attendant scanned his ticket, beamed, and Oliver turned to me with that infuriating grin. Love, snagged an upgrade. Youll manage, yeah? See you in Newquay.
I laughed. Surely a joke.
It wasnt.
Before I could react, he pecked my cheek and swanned off like some traitorous lord. Meanwhile, I stood there, wrestling two writhing toddlers and a collapsing pushchair, unravelling in front of half of Gatwick.
He thought hed won. Karma had other plans.
By the time I squeezed into seat 24B, I was sweating through my jumper, both twins were duelling over a sippy cup, and my patience had well and truly expired. Poppy upended Ribena onto my jeans.
Brilliant, I muttered, dabbing at it with a dubious muslin cloth.
The bloke beside me pressed the call button. Any chance of a quieter seat? Bit of a ruckus here.
I nearly wept. Instead, I let him flee and briefly considered stowing myself in the overhead locker.
Then my phone buzzed.
Oliver.
Food up here is proper posh. Even got a hot towel!
I stared at the message, clutching a grubby wipe, wondering if divine intervention accepted bribes.
Seconds later, another pingthis time from my father-in-law.
Send us a video of the grandbabies on the plane! Want to see them flying like proper little adventurers!
So I filmed Poppy hammering her tray like a pub drummer, Alfie gnawing his stuffed corgi, and mewild-eyed, greasy-haired, a shell of a woman.
Oliver? Nowhere in sight.
I sent it. His dad replied with a single thumbs-up.
That shouldve been the end. Spoiler: it wasnt.
When we landed, I wrestled two overtired toddlers, three bursting bags, and a pushchair with a mind of its own. Oliver strolled off the plane behind me, stretching like hed just had a spa weekend.
Cracking flight. You try the crisps? Oh, wait He chuckled.
At baggage claim, his dad spotted us. He scooped Poppy up, kissed my cheek, and said, Look at youqueen of the skies.
Then Oliver stepped forward. Alright, Dad?
His dads smile vanished. Son. Well talk later.
And talk they did.
That night, once the twins were down, I heard it: Oliver. Study. Now.
I pretended to scroll my phone, but the muffled row was unmistakable:
You think that was clever?
She said shed cope
Thats not the bloody point, Oliver!
When the door finally opened, my father-in-law walked past, squeezed my shoulder, and murmured, Sorted, love.
Oliver slunk upstairs, silent.
The next evening, his mum announced dinner outher treat. Oliver perked up. Nice! Somewhere fancy?
We ended up at a harbour-side bistro, candlelit, with a bloke playing acoustic guitar. The waiter took our orders.
FIL: Single malt, neat.
MIL: Earl Grey, no milk.
Me: Sparkling water.
Then he turned to Oliver. Deadpan.
And for him a glass of milk. Since hes clearly not grown-up enough for the hard stuff.
The silence was brutalthen the table erupted. His mum snorted into her napkin, I nearly choked, even the waiter bit back a smirk. Oliver sat scarlet-faced, mute, through three courses.
But karma wasnt done.
Two days later, as I folded tiny socks, his dad leaned against the garden fence. Just so you know, he said, updated the will. Trust for the kids, and for youenough to keep you comfortable. Olivers share? Shrinking by the day till he learns what family means.
I was gobsmacked. He winked.
By the time we flew home, Oliver was suddenly Father of the Yearhauling car seats, nappy bags, whatever Id let him.
At check-in, the agent handed him his boarding pass and paused. Ah, siryouve been upgraded again.
Oliver blinked. The ticket sleeve had a note scrawled in bold ink: Business class again. Enjoy. But this ones one-way. Explain it to your wife.
I knew that handwriting.
Blimey, I whispered. Your dad didnt
He did, Oliver muttered. Said I could relax in style at the hotel Ill be staying in alone. To think about my choices.
I burst out laughing. Guess karma reclines all the way, eh?
As I boarded with both twins, Oliver trailed behind, sheepish, dragging his suitcase.
Just before we stepped on the plane, he leaned in. So any chance I can earn my way back to economy?
**Lesson learned:** Never underestimate a fathers wrathor the power of a well-timed glass of milk.
