When my brother landed a massive promotion, his ego—and his sons’—inflated instantly. Suddenly Tyler (13) and Jaden (15) were being treated like princes, and I was asked to host them for two weeks while he jetted off on vacation. I agreed, thinking it would be fun cousin time. Turns out, it was less “family bonding” and more “royal meltdown.”

They arrived with designer luggage, immediately turned up their noses at my home, and complained about everything. They sneered at my cooking, asking if the food came from a can because they have a chef at home. They mocked my son’s laptop, calling it “ancient,” and spent their days whining and scoffing at anything that wasn’t luxury-level. Every request felt like dealing with tiny aristocrats who believed chores were beneath them.

By the time their trip was over, I was counting the hours. On our way to the airport, the seatbelt alert sounded, and I told them to buckle up. Tyler rolled his eyes and said, “Dad doesn’t care.” That was the final straw. I calmly explained that I do care and that the law cares, too. When they refused, I simply parked, messaged my brother, and told him his “royal heirs” would need alternate transportation unless they followed basic safety rules.

Let’s just say reality hit quickly. They buckled up—silently. And when my brother called later, frustrated his sons had complaints, I reminded him: I don’t run a palace, and I don’t raise entitlement. They survived two weeks in the real world, and maybe—just maybe—they left a little less royal than they arrived.