When my brother asked me to watch his sons while he and his wife vacationed in the Maldives, I hesitated—but agreed. Two weeks with Tyler and Jaden couldn’t be that bad, right? Wrong. From the moment they arrived, the boys acted like they were royalty forced to slum it in the suburbs. They mocked my cooking, scoffed at our home, and humiliated my sweet son Adrian at every turn.
They turned their noses up at our furniture, laughed at Adrian’s outdated laptop, and treated every act of kindness like an insult. I bit my tongue daily, counting the hours until they were gone. When departure day finally came, I was more than ready to reclaim my peace—until they refused to wear seatbelts in the car because it “wrinkled their shirts.”
After their father barked at them over speakerphone, they still refused to budge—so neither did I. I stood outside the car for 45 minutes in the sun until they gave in. By then, traffic had piled up, and we arrived just in time to watch their flight close. The stunned look on their faces was delicious.
My brother called, furious. I calmly reminded him that parenting isn’t a vacation you delegate to others—and I don’t bend the law for entitled kids. The next day, Adrian showed me a message from Tyler calling me insane. I laughed and said, “No, sweetheart. I’m just not their maid.” Maybe next time, they’ll buckle up—and grow up.
