I boarded that airplane believing the most difficult part of the journey would be traveling without my late husband for the first time.

Instead, I ended up sitting beside a man who seemed to think my kindness gave him the right to take advantage of me.

For four exhausting hours, he pushed his knees into my space, occupied my armrest, and acted as though I’d paid for only half a seat.

Whenever I politely asked him to move, he mocked my size.

“Come on, lady. You’re tiny. You don’t need all that room.”

I was sixty-one years old, barely five feet two, and had spent most of my life trying to avoid unnecessary arguments.

But when that man finally got up to use the restroom, I made a decision he never expected.

By the time he returned, I was sitting somewhere else.

He stopped in the aisle, stared at my empty seat, and turned bright red.