I tried to ignore them at first. “Should she even be traveling like that?” one of the men laughed, loud enough for the entire gate to hear. My hands tightened over my eight-month belly as another added, “Maybe she’s hoping for sympathy upgrades.” Heat rushed to my face, but I stayed silent. They thought I was alone. They thought I was powerless. They had no idea who was about to walk through those terminal doors.
Part 1 – Told by Olivia Bennett
My name is Olivia Bennett, and I was thirty-five weeks pregnant when a group of strangers decided I was their entertainment. I was sitting alone at Gate C17 in Chicago O’Hare, waiting for a delayed flight to Boston. My husband was already there for a new job he’d started two weeks earlier, and I was following behind once my doctor cleared me to travel. My ankles were swollen inside my flats, my lower back ached, and the baby shifted constantly as if protesting the hard airport seats. I kept both hands resting protectively over my belly, focusing on the departure board and trying to ignore the stares that come with being visibly, heavily pregnant in public. About twenty minutes into the delay, three men in their early thirties dropped into the seats across from me. Loud. Confident. The kind of men who assume every public space belongs to them. One of them, tall with a baseball cap turned backward, nudged his friend and said, “Dude, she looks like she’s about to pop.” They laughed. I pretended not to hear. Another one leaned forward. “Ma’am, you sure that baby’s not coming before boarding group three?” The group burst into louder laughter. Heat crept up my neck, but I kept my eyes fixed on my phone. I told myself they’d get bored. Instead, they escalated. “Maybe she’s trying to get pre-boarding sympathy,” one added. “Smart strategy.” A woman sitting two rows away glanced over but said nothing. My carry-on sat upright beside my leg. Suddenly, the man in the cap reached out with his foot and nudged it. It tipped sideways and fell with a dull thud. “Relax,” he smirked when I looked up. “Just making space.” My chest tightened. “Please don’t touch my things,” I said quietly. He leaned back, hands raised mockingly. “Whoa. Sensitive.” The third man chimed in, “Stress isn’t good for the baby, right?” More laughter. My heart pounded harder than it should have. The baby shifted sharply, a heavy kick under my ribs. I slowly stood, steadying myself on the armrest. “Stop,” I said, my voice trembling but clear. That only seemed to amuse them more. And then the airport loudspeaker crackled overhead with a sharp announcement that made the entire gate fall silent.
