Flying from Chicago to Seattle, I was tired and managing a blood sugar dip (I have Type 1 diabetes). I pulled out a protein bar—the mom next to me hissed, “Don’t. Our son is very sensitive.” The kid wasn’t disabled, just spoiled and loud. I figured I’d wait for the snack cart. But when I tried to order, the dad cut in: “NO FOOD OR DRINKS FOR THIS ROW.” I hit the call button. He scoffed, “Maybe skip the snack and be decent for once, yeah?” The mom added, “SHE’LL HAVE NOTHING, THANKS.” I was already LIVID. So I turned to the flight attendant and said loudly enough for half the plane, “Hi, I’m diabetic. I need to eat something or I could have a medical emergency. They do not get to dictate what I do with my body.

The flight attendant blinked at me, then looked at the parents. “She can absolutely eat,” she said, loud enough that a few heads turned. The mom’s cheeks flamed red. The dad muttered something under his breath, clearly furious at having lost control of the situation. But the flight attendant was unbothered, moving on to the snack cart. I got my protein bar and some juice. The mom glared, whispering to the dad, but I didn’t care—I needed to keep my blood sugar up. I felt shaky but determined. I took a deep breath, realizing how much I hated that they’d tried to shame me.

Their son, meanwhile, was climbing all over his seat, kicking the tray table, and throwing a fit because his iPad battery died. I caught the flight attendant’s eyes again, and she gave me a sympathetic look. I mouthed, “Thank you.” She gave a small nod, then went back to her duties. It was a small moment, but it felt like a victory.

I started to calm down as the flight continued, but I couldn’t help noticing that the parents kept shooting dirty looks my way. I just ignored them. About twenty minutes later, the boy screamed so loudly it startled me. He was upset about his screen being dead. His mother frantically tried to hush him, but he threw his toy dinosaur at her face. It hit her cheek with a smack. She gasped, and the dad turned beet red.

People were turning around, staring. The mom’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Do you see what you’ve caused?” she spat at me, as if I had anything to do with her child’s meltdown. I just shook my head. I felt sorry for the boy; clearly he’d never been taught boundaries. But I wasn’t about to accept blame for their parenting.