The Confrontation Begins
A tall woman with platinum-blonde hair appeared, her young son clutching a tablet behind her.
She stopped abruptly at Naomi’s row and snapped,
“Excuse me. You’re in my seat.”
Naomi looked up. “I don’t think so. This is 12A — it’s printed on my ticket.”
The woman — later whispered about as the entitled mom — rolled her eyes.
“My son doesn’t want the middle seat. You need to move to the back so we can sit together.”
Naomi blinked, startled. “I’m sorry, but I chose this seat for a reason. I’d like to stay here.”
The boy looked down, embarrassed, as his mother leaned in and hissed just loud enough for others to hear:
“Come on. Don’t make a scene. Be nice and give us the seat.”
