When my brother asked me to watch his two sons for two whole weeks, I thought I was signing up for a little chaos—loud voices, messy rooms, and maybe some teenage eye-rolling. But what I got was something much worse: pure snobbery and endless entitlement.
From the moment they stepped into my house, my nephews acted like they were royalty visiting a peasant’s hut. They mocked everything—from my cooking to my son’s laptop—and their arrogance was so thick you could almost cut it with a knife. I kept my cool for a while… until one car ride changed everything.
You know that sinking feeling when you say yes to something but your gut screams at you, “This is a terrible idea”? That’s exactly what happened the second my brother called me, his voice sweet but sneaky, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Hey, sis,” he said, that same old tone he always used when he wanted something.
He’d just gotten a fancy promotion and was riding a wave of self-importance. He sounded like he expected me to drop everything for him.
“Could Tyler and Jaden stay with you for two weeks?” he asked casually. “Amy and I are going on a really nice, well-deserved vacation for three weeks.”
He added with a sigh, “We really need this break. It’ll just be two weeks. Amy’s mom is taking the boys the last week. You’re so great with kids, and it’ll be good for the cousins to spend more time together.”
I should’ve listened to my gut screaming “No.” I should’ve said no.
But family is family, right?
Two days later, my doorbell rang.
There stood Tyler and Jaden, dragging designer suitcases like they were checking into a five-star hotel. Sunglasses on their heads, faces full of practiced boredom, and an attitude so thick I thought I might choke on it.
Tyler, the younger one, was thirteen but acted like he ruled the world. Jaden, fifteen, had an attitude that could cut glass.
My own son, Adrian, bless him, nervously bounced over, trying to be friendly.
“Hey, guys! Want some snacks? Mom made cookies yesterday,” he said, hopeful.
Tyler sniffed the air, curling his lip in disgust. “This place smells like… spaghetti?” he said, as if I’d insulted his royal nose.
“That’s because I’m making spaghetti for dinner,” I said, forcing a smile. “Hope you’re hungry.”
That dinner should have been my first big warning sign.
I served spaghetti bolognese, thinking it was a safe, simple meal everyone likes. But Tyler poked at his plate like it was some kind of poison.
“Ew, is this… meat from a can or something?” he sneered.
Jaden, not to be outdone, sniffed the air like a connoisseur and said, “Our chef makes a garlic confit blend at home.”
Their chef. Of course they had a chef.
I forced a laugh. “Well, our chef — that’s me — works on a teacher’s budget.”
They just rolled their eyes.
Then Adrian, sweet and kind, tried to break the ice with his gaming laptop. “Want to play some games together?”
Jaden laughed in a way that could’ve shattered glass. “What is this? Windows 98?”
Tyler joined in, “Can it even run Fortnite, or just Solitaire?”
At that moment, I realized this wasn’t just about differences or getting used to a new place. This was about pure entitlement. My nephews looked at my home like a prison, and at my son like he was beneath them.
The complaints never stopped.
The guest beds were “too soft” compared to their special spine-support mattresses at home.
My fridge was “ancient” because it had buttons instead of voice commands.
And my 55-inch TV? A relic, in their eyes.
But the worst was watching Adrian trying so hard to be nice while they mocked everything he offered.
“Why don’t we play outside?” Adrian suggested hopefully. They rolled their eyes.
“Want to see my Lego collection?” he asked. They exchanged looks like he’d invited them to a garbage dump.
Every single day was the same.
They treated my food like I was serving trash. Chores? Forget it. Helping with dishes might as well have been asking them to amputate a finger.
And through it all, I kept quiet. I told myself, “It’s just two weeks. You can get through two weeks.”
But my patience was shrinking fast.
I counted the days until their flight back. My brother had arranged for their grandparents to pick them up after those two weeks, so all I had to do was get them to the airport. The finish line was close.
On the last day, as Tyler and Jaden packed their designer bags into my car, I tried not to grin too much. Finally, I thought. This nightmare is almost over.
We pulled out of the driveway, and the annoying seatbelt chime started buzzing.
“Boys, buckle up,” I said, glancing in the rearview mirror.
Tyler responded with that casual arrogance that made my blood boil. “We don’t wear seatbelts,” he said. “It puts wrinkles in my t-shirt. Dad doesn’t care.”
“Well, I do,” I said, calm but firm. I pulled over to the curb. “No seatbelt, no ride. Wrinkles are better than a trip to the hospital.”
Jaden crossed his arms, smirking. “You’re not serious.”
Oh, I was serious.
I was done with their spoiled attitudes. My patience was nearly gone, but all the frustration inside me felt like a ticking bomb ready to explode.
I tried one last thing—money.
“Listen, boys,” I said, voice a little sharper. “This is California. It’s a $500 fine per kid riding without a seatbelt.”
They just smirked like this was a joke.
Jaden said smoothly, “Oh, you should’ve just said you’re too cheap to pay. We’ll get Dad to send you the money.”
I gripped the steering wheel so hard I thought it might crack. I kept quiet.
Then Jaden pulled out his phone and called their dad on speaker.
“Dad,” Tyler whined, “she won’t drive unless we wear seatbelts.”
Jaden added with a sigh, “She just doesn’t want to pay the $1000 fine. Can you send her the money?”
My brother’s voice came through, annoyed. “Just buckle up, already! What’s wrong with you two?”
And then—click. He hung up.
Even with Dad ordering them to comply, the boys sat back, arms crossed, acting like they were protesting some awful injustice.
That was it. I reached my breaking point.
I turned off the engine and took the key out.
“Alright then,” I said, opening the door. “You’re not going anywhere.”
I stepped out and stood in front of the car, arms crossed, ready for battle.
What’s 45 minutes of teenagers sulking in a car? A chorus of sighs, huffs, and endless whining about missing their flight.
I didn’t move.
They needed to learn the world doesn’t bend just because their parents spoiled them.
Finally, Tyler snapped.
“Fine!” he shouted. “We’ll wear the stupid seatbelts! Just drive. We don’t want to miss the flight.”
Jaden rolled his eyes, but followed.
But consequences don’t care about your timing.
Because of their tantrum, traffic was heavy. What should have been a quick ride to the airport became a crawl.
We pulled up ten minutes after their boarding time ended.
Their faces when they realized they missed the flight? Priceless.
All that attitude. All that defiance. And for what?
Before we even got back to the car, my phone rang. My brother’s name flashed on the screen. I knew he’d heard about the missed flight.
“This is your fault!” he yelled the moment I answered. “You should’ve just driven them!”
And that’s when two weeks of biting my tongue paid off. I let him have it.
“Oh, so I’m supposed to break the law because your kids think they’re above it? Maybe if you taught them respect and safety instead of entitlement, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
He hung up. Just like that. Click.
The next day, Adrian showed me a message Tyler had sent him: “Your mom’s insane.”
I just laughed.
“No, honey. I’m not insane. I’m just not your personal servant. There’s a difference—and it’s about time someone showed you what that looks like.”
I don’t regret a single second of that showdown. Not the missed flight, not the angry calls, not even the family drama.
Because entitled little princes need to learn the real world has rules. Rules that apply to everyone—even them.
