It all started with a seemingly kind offer from Aunt Marie—she had booked a birthday trip for her twin boys and offered that I take the spot of a friend who canceled, “just pay his share.” I was sixteen, broke, and thrilled at the idea of castles and churros, so I agreed.
But from the moment we landed, it became clear: I wasn’t a guest—I was unpaid help. She barked at staff, dumped her kids on me, and vanished frequently to shop. I pushed strollers, chased snacks, and carried backpacks, all while trying to stay patient so I could enjoy Disney at last.
On the last day, one twin wanted to ride the Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster and the other didn’t. Aunt Marie sighed, “You take him. I’ll watch the bags.” I handed over my crossbody with my phone, ID, debit card, and passport. Minutes later, after the ride, her spot—and my bag!—was empty. No Aunt. No bags. An hour of panicked searching later, I ended up at Lost Children with a sugar-fueled ten‑year‑old and no adult. No ID. No phone. In a foreign country.
I called my dad, broke and terrified. He arranged Guest Services to cover a taxi so I could return to the hotel. When I got there, Aunt Marie had checked in before us—with a note: “Gone to dinner. See you on the train.” No apology. No concern. Just a note.
On the train, I found her calmly drinking coffee. She handed me a cold, wrinkled bread roll and said, “I left a note!” That was it. No remorse.
Months later, our family planned a winter cabin trip. When Aunt Marie asked what to bring, I said, “I’ll handle the bookings.” I booked every room for everyone but her. When she noticed at the last minute, I calmly explained, “I left a note at reception.” Cue chaos—and her fury that I’d “ruined” things.
But the rest of us had snow angels, board games, hot cocoa, and tons of pictures. I posted them in the family chat so she could see: she left people behind, and I did too—just with breadcrumbs.