My husband John and I were flying to visit his parents with our 2-year-old. At the airport, John suddenly disappeared, only to reappear at the gate grinning.

“I upgraded to business,” he said smugly. “I can’t deal with you and the kid right now. I NEED some peace and quiet.”

My blood boiled. There I was, stuck in economy with a screaming toddler, diaper bags, and no help — while John stretched out in luxury up front. Passengers around me looked sympathetic, but he didn’t even glance back.

I didn’t cause a scene when we landed. Instead, I waited.

A few days into our stay at his parents’ house, karma came fast. At dinner, his father asked how the flight was. Before I could even answer, our little one piped up in toddler honesty:
“Daddy left us! Daddy go sit alone!”

The whole table froze. John’s mom looked horrified. His father’s face darkened. “You left your wife and baby? For business class?”

John went pale as a ghost. He stammered, trying to excuse himself, but his parents weren’t having it. For the rest of the trip, they made him carry every bag, handle every tantrum, and they even made him sleep on the pull-out couch.

I didn’t have to lift a finger. Karma handled it for me.