At the airport with our 18-month-old twins, Ava and Mason, my husband Eric casually told me, “I snagged an upgrade. I’ll see you on the other side, okay?” I laughed—until he boarded Business Class and left me alone in coach with two toddlers, a collapsing stroller, and a spiritual crisis.

Mason chewed a giraffe like it owed him money. Ava pounded her tray like a club DJ. Apple juice baptized my jeans. Meanwhile, Eric texted: “They gave me a warm towel 😍.” I stared at my baby-wipe-smeared phone in disbelief.

At baggage claim, his dad scooped up Ava and beamed at me: “Champion of the skies.” Then turned to Eric, dead serious: “Son… we’ll talk later.”

Later that night: muffled voices. “You left your wife with two toddlers in economy?” Eric emerged humbled. The next evening at dinner, when the waiter asked for drinks, my father-in-law ordered bourbon, then turned to Eric: “And for him… a glass of milk. Since he can’t handle being an adult.”

I nearly choked on my sparkling water.

Two days later, on the porch, my father-in-law quietly told me: “There’s a trust for the kids. You’re taken care of. Eric’s share… shrinks every time he forgets what comes first.”

At the airport home, Eric was suddenly the world’s most helpful dad. But when the gate agent handed him another Business Class pass marked “You’ll explain it to your wife”—in his dad’s handwriting—I knew the lesson had stuck.

Warm towels? Out. Priorities? Realigned.