I was mid-flight, heart pounding—not because of turbulence but because of what just happened. A clumsy jerk sitting beside me slammed his soda onto my laptop. The screen flickered, then died, shattered beyond repair. That little glowing rectangle wasn’t just tech to me—it was how I feed my creativity, pay my bills, and stay connected to my daughter and grandma.
Air felt thick. He looked up, smirk fading, as the fizz from the soda settled. He muttered something—probably an apology—I can’t be sure. I barely heard it. I just stared at the wreckage and breathed.
The rest of the flight passed in a blur. I sat by the window, tapping through photos of my daughter giggling at the park. I thought about how fragile things are—like laptops, and moments, and life itself.
And then, karma.
The plane touched down. Instantly, the pompous guy—who’d been lounging like he owned the place—stood up and dashed toward the exit. He pushed past passengers, jostling elbows, every bit of confidence gone. He looked scattered, panicked, searching lines of airport staff for help—any help.
Meanwhile, I gathered my things—slowly, warmly. I tucked the shattered laptop in its bag. I thought about my granddaughter, waiting for me at the gate, eyes wide with that question: “Did you bring the toy?” I could practically hear her soft voice.
I walked off the plane calm as could be. No frantic saving of his plans. No scrambling. Just steady steps toward what mattered.
He, on the other hand, looked distraught. Maybe he missed a connecting flight, maybe he lost his cool. Either way, his swagger was gone.
I looked at him just a second, and felt it: a moment of ironclad closure. Not because he got what he “deserved,” but because reality had already done its work. And I… I was already getting ready to hug my grandma, actually be there for her. That meant more than revenge.
Does that sound cold? Maybe. But honestly—sometimes the best karma is just walking away with grace, letting life do its own balancing. The laptop can be replaced. The rest—my grandma, my girl, my stories—those are irreplaceable.
