Michael Harrington loved first class—no noise, no discomfort, no surprises. So when he boarded his Seattle-bound flight and saw a large woman seated beside him, he was immediately annoyed.
As she fastened her belt, her elbow grazed his. “Watch it,” he snapped. She apologized softly, but he continued with cruel jabs about her size. “Book two seats next time,” he said. “You’re not a passenger—you’re cargo.”
She didn’t fight back, just turned to the window, wiping away a tear.
He mocked her diet soda, her meal, even her presence. But others began to notice—an older man across the aisle, a flight attendant with a tight smile. Still, Michael saw only someone beneath him, in frayed clothes and worn shoes.