At the very front, in seat 1A, a young Black woman rested her hand protectively over the curve of her six-month pregnancy. She looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, her breath steady but strained. All she wanted was peace, water, and safe passage to London to see her ailing father. Instead, she was met with ice.
“Ma’am, stow your bag and tighten your belt,” snapped the senior flight attendant, her tone crisp, her blue eyes cold. “Yes, of course,” the woman replied softly, offering a polite smile. “Could I also have a bottle of water? I’m not feeling well.” The attendant’s lips thinned. “We’ll serve once we’re airborne. Until then, please follow procedure.”
The request for water had been small, human, and urgent. The dismissal stung deeper than it should have. She tried again gently. “I’m pregnant. Hydration helps.” The attendant’s gaze flicked to her belly with something sharper than disapproval, a flash of contempt.