I am someone who generally avoids confrontation at all costs, but there is a very specific boundary I have when it comes to flying. I always, without fail, pay the extra fee for an aisle seat.

I don’t care if it’s twenty dollars or eighty dollars; I will gladly hand over the money to ensure I have a sliver of personal space and the freedom to stand up without awkwardly climbing over strangers. I deal with mild claustrophobia, and being boxed against a window on a cramped metal tube for five hours is my own personal version of misery.

This particular flight was the final leg of a grueling, week-long business trip. I was running on maybe four hours of sleep, two cups of overpriced airport coffee, and pure adrenaline. All I wanted was to board the plane, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and sleep until we touched down in my home city. The terminal had been an absolute nightmare of delays and gate changes, so by the time my boarding group was finally called, the collective mood of the passengers was already incredibly sour. I shuffled down the narrow jet bridge, gripping my carry-on, just repeating my row number in my head like a mantra. Row 14. Seat C. Almost there.

As I approached the middle of the cabin, the line of boarding passengers bottlenecked, giving me plenty of time to look ahead at my row. That was when I saw her. A woman in her late forties or early fifties, dressed in an expensive-looking cashmere travel set, was sitting dead center in seat 14C. My seat. She hadn’t just sat down momentarily to let someone pass, either. She had fully established residency. She had a massive, structured designer tote bag shoved under the seat in front of her, entirely blocking the legroom.

A thick travel blanket was draped over her lap, and she was wearing a pair of massive, dark sunglasses that covered half her face.