At sixty-one, I boarded the plane carrying excitement and grief in equal measure. I was traveling to meet my first granddaughter, Rose, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my late husband, Steven, and how desperately I wished he were making the journey beside me. Shortly after taking my window seat, the man beside me introduced himself as Josh. Almost immediately, his knee pressed against mine, his elbow claimed the armrest, and his body began spilling into my limited space.

At first, I politely asked Josh to move over. He laughed, blamed his height, and barely adjusted himself before pushing into my space again. For nearly four hours, I remained squeezed against the window, uncomfortable but unwilling to create an argument. I had spent most of my life avoiding confrontation, so when a flight attendant asked whether everything was okay, I automatically smiled and said yes. Then Josh suddenly got up to use the restroom, and I realized this might be my only opportunity. Click continue reading below