On a 12-hour flight, I fully reclined my seat. The pregnant woman behind me pushed back, saying she had no legroom. I snapped: “If you want luxury, fly business class.”
When we landed, I grabbed the wrong bag—hers. Inside: a baby onesie, formula, a stuffed giraffe. My laptop and insulin kit were gone. The tag read Kavita Sharma – 27D. The same woman I’d dismissed.
Her cousin Seema helped me swap bags. She told me Kavita had flown despite swelling and grief, just to attend a funeral. Then she added, “She said the man in front of her snapped at her. That it ruined her whole flight.”
I admitted it was me. Seema just said, “Maybe that’s the universe’s way of making you carry something of hers.”
Weeks later, a card arrived. On the front: baby ducks. Inside: “You helped carry a little weight that day. Thank you.”
Taped inside was a photo of Kavita, smiling weakly, holding her newborn wrapped in a giraffe blanket.
I’d been the man who made her flight miserable. But because of that mix-up, I finally learned how to see people again.
