It was hour three of a grueling overnight flight from New York to Tokyo. I’d paid extra for an economy seat with “extra recline,” and after a long week of meetings, I wanted every inch of comfort I’d paid for. So, I pushed my seat all the way back, popped in my headphones, and tried to drift off.
That’s when I felt it a sharp shove against my seatback.
Then another. I turned around to see a very pregnant woman glaring at me.
“Can you put your seat up a little? I don’t have any room,” she said. I glanced at her knees brushing the seat and shrugged.
“Sorry, it’s a long flight. I paid for this seat.”
“Sir,” she said, her voice calm but oddly pointed. “Before you disembark… check your bag.” Confused, I pulled my backpack from the overhead bin. The zipper was half-open — which was strange, because I never leave it that way.
My heart skipped as I unzipped it fully.
Inside, right on top of my neatly folded hoodie, was a small white envelope. It wasn’t mine.
I tore it open and froze. Inside was a thick stack of yen — far more than I’d ever seen in cash — and a folded note. My hands shook as I unfolded the paper. It read: “For the baby. I hope this teaches you kindness. — 19A” 19A… that was her seat number. My knees went weak.
