You know that feeling when you agree to something and instantly regret it? That was me when my brother called with his “little favor.”
“Can the boys stay with you for two weeks? Amy and I need a vacation,” he said, oozing entitlement.
Two days later, Tyler and Jaden arrived — teenage royalty with designer luggage and attitudes to match. My son Adrian tried to welcome them with cookies and games, but they scoffed at everything: my food, my home, even Adrian’s kindness.
Every day was a struggle. They mocked my cooking, refused to help with chores, and looked down on Adrian like he was beneath them. I kept telling myself: just survive the two weeks.
Finally, the last day came. As I drove them to the airport, they refused to wear seatbelts — said it would wrinkle their shirts. I pulled over and told them they weren’t going anywhere until they buckled up.
They called their dad. He told them to comply. Still, they refused.
So I shut off the car and waited. Forty-five minutes of sulking later, they finally gave in. But by then, traffic had built up — we got to the airport ten minutes too late.
My brother called, furious. I calmly told him maybe he should’ve raised respectful kids. He hung up on me.
The next day, Adrian showed me a text from Tyler: “Your mom’s insane.” I just laughed.
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