I’ve changed diapers mid-road trip and soothed tantrums at weddings, but at 30,000 feet? I finally said no. My sister, a newly-divorced single mom, called a week before our flight to Rome and said, “You’re watching the kids.” No request. No gratitude. Just assumption. Typical. I told her I wasn’t comfortable babysitting mid-air. She scoffed and hung up.

What she didn’t know was that I had other plans. I used my miles to upgrade to business class. No sticky fingers, no tantrums—just peace. At the airport, she arrived in chaos: one kid screaming, the baby crying, and her new boyfriend, James, completely useless. I calmly handed her my boarding pass. “I upgraded,” I said. “I’ll be in business class.” She stared, stunned. “That’s selfish!” she hissed. “Family doesn’t ditch family!” I smiled. “I told you I wasn’t your nanny.”

Two hours into the flight, a flight attendant approached me. “Someone in 34B is asking if you’ll swap seats or help with the baby?” I didn’t flinch. “No, thank you. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” Behind the curtain, I heard chaos unfold while I enjoyed salmon, fresh bread, and tiramisu.

I watched a movie uninterrupted and took a glorious nap. My sister? Frazzled, spit-up on her shirt, and one sock missing. James? MIA. I didn’t lift a finger.

At baggage claim, she stumbled beside me. “You didn’t feel guilty?” she asked, exhausted. I slipped on my sunglasses and replied, “Nope. I finally felt free.”

And I meant it.