For the next few moments, there was blissful quiet. And then—another kick. Solid. Right in the center of his back. Daniel flinched. It wasn’t just the impact—it was the certainty that came with it. The boy had understood him. He wasn’t too young. He wasn’t confused. He just didn’t care.
And the mother? She still hadn’t looked up. Daniel turned again, this time addressing her directly. “Excuse me,” he said, keeping his voice low and measured. “I’ve asked your son twice now to stop kicking my seat. Could you please ask him to stop?” The mother blinked at him like she’d been interrupted from a dream.
Her face registered faint surprise, followed quickly by irritation. She pulled out one earphone and tilted her head. “I’m sorry—what?” The mother asked, tugging out one earphone with a slight wince, like Daniel’s voice had physically inconvenienced her.
Daniel forced a patient tone. “Your son keeps kicking the back of my seat. I’ve asked him to stop, but he hasn’t. I’d really appreciate it if you could step in.” She turned lazily to glance at her son, then back at Daniel. Her expression flattened into something distant, rehearsed—like she’d handled complaints before and had a script ready.