onLeave a Comment on At dinner, my sister threw water on my pregnant wife’s dress and sneered, “Don’t sit there, that’s my spot.” My mom laughed, “Pregnancy makes you clumsy,” while my dad sent her to eat in the kitchen. My wife silently grabbed her coat. I grabbed my keys—and called the travel concierge. “Cancel the first-class flights and VIP Mediterranean cruise resort.” On Monday, my family arrived at the airport with designer luggage. Then security escorted them out. 
In the background, behind his shoulder, the elite, velvet-roped First-Class international check-in lounge was a scene of absolute, spectacular, humiliating chaos.
“Arthur! What the hell is going on?!” my father bellowed into the phone, looking wildly around the terminal as if expecting me to jump out from behind a pillar. “Where are you?! The airline agent here is an idiot! She says our tickets don’t exist! She says the reservation was voided yesterday!”
“What are you talking about?” my father stammered, the color finally beginning to drain from his face as the tone of my voice registered in his panicked brain.
“I canceled the flights, Dad,” I stated clinically, enunciating every syllable. “I canceled the luxury cruise. I canceled the penthouse suites in Rome.”
I paused, letting the silence echo over the Wi-Fi connection.
“I also canceled your credit cards. I permanently disconnected your cell phone plans. And, just for good measure, I canceled the lease payments on Vanessa’s downtown apartment. The eviction notice should be on her door by Thursday.”
