I expected turbulence in the air, not in my marriage. One minute we were boarding a flight with diaper bags, strollers, and twin toddlers, and the next, my husband had vanished behind the curtain into business class, leaving me drowning in apple juice and chaos. He thought he had outsmarted me, but karma had already boarded that plane—and it had a front-row seat.

It was supposed to be our first real family vacation. Eric and I were flying to Florida to visit his parents in their pastel-colored retirement community near Tampa. His father had been counting down the days to meet his grandchildren, FaceTiming so often that our son Mason had started calling every elderly man “Papa.” Between the car seats, bags, and two squirming 18-month-olds, I was already sweating before we reached the gate.