Someone behind them: “There’s a reason they call this the quiet car.” Another voice, low but clear: “She just let him go on like that.” The mother’s glare faltered. She looked around. Faces had turned. Not all, but enough. No one looked at her directly, but she felt the weight of it—the hush, the judgment, the quiet condemnation layered in every glance.
She lowered her eyes. Then looked at her son. Her expression hardened. “Look what you’ve done,” she hissed under her breath. The boy squirmed. “It was just water—” “Just water?” she snapped. “You embarrassed me. You’ve been kicking that man’s seat for an hour. I told you to sit still. But no—”