She stared down at it in disbelief, then back at Daniel, eyes wide and furious. Daniel turned, looking stunned but calm. “I—I’m sorry,” he said, feigning concern. “That kick just now startled me. I lost my grip.” He glanced at the boy, who had frozen mid-swing. “It’s really hard to hold onto things when your seat keeps jerking forward.”
The mother opened her mouth, a retort forming. But then came the sound she hadn’t expected. The murmurs. Soft at first—like a breeze under the tension. A woman across the aisle leaned toward her husband. “Honestly, I’ve been watching it happen. Poor guy’s been getting kicked nonstop.”
Someone behind them: “There’s a reason they call this the quiet car.” Another voice, low but clear: “She just let him go on like that.” The mother’s glare faltered. She looked around. Faces had turned. Not all, but enough. No one looked at her directly, but she felt the weight of it—the hush, the judgment, the quiet condemnation layered in every glance.
She lowered her eyes. Then looked at her son. Her expression hardened. “Look what you’ve done,” she hissed under her breath. The boy squirmed. “It was just water—” “Just water?” she snapped. “You embarrassed me. You’ve been kicking that man’s seat for an hour. I told you to sit still. But no—”