When my brother asked me to watch his sons, Tyler and Jaden, for two weeks, I knew it would be a challenge, but I didn’t expect their arrogance. From the moment they arrived with designer luggage and turned up their noses at homemade spaghetti, it was clear they saw my home as beneath them. They mocked my son Adrian’s laptop, sneered at chores, and complained about everything from the beds to the TV.

I bit my tongue through their antics, reminding myself it was only temporary. But the final straw came on the way to the airport. They refused to wear seatbelts, dismissing me with smug grins and even calling their father, who promptly told them to buckle up. Still, they defied me, convinced they could bend the rules like always.

So I pulled over and shut off the car. For 45 long minutes, they sulked and whined until they finally gave in. But by then, traffic had piled up, and we reached the airport too late. Watching their faces drop when they realized they’d missed their flight was priceless—a dose of reality they’d long avoided.

My brother called, furious, blaming me for the missed flight. But I told him the truth: maybe if he’d raised his sons with respect and responsibility, this wouldn’t have happened. They could call me insane all they wanted, but I knew better. I wasn’t their servant—I was the adult who finally showed them that entitlement has consequences.