When my brother left his spoiled sons with me for two weeks, their snobbery tested my patience, but I turned it into a lesson. I’m Jane, 43, and this is how I faced their insults to my home and son, teaching them that family means respect.
My brother’s call should’ve warned me. Flush with a new job, he begged me to host his sons, Lucas and Owen, for two weeks while he and his wife took a luxury cruise. “It’ll be great for the cousins,” he said. I ignored my unease, agreeing for family’s sake. They arrived, hauling high-end luggage, acting like my home was a shack. Lucas, 14, sneered with superiority, and Owen, 16, looked disgusted. My son, Ben, 15, offered popcorn, excited, but Lucas scoffed, “Smells like burnt toast.” I was making meatloaf, a cozy staple.
Dinner was rough. I served meatloaf, expecting gratitude, but Lucas prodded it. “Is this frozen?” Owen boasted, “Our chef makes steak tartare.” I smiled, “This chef’s on a teacher’s dime.” Ben shared his gaming PC, but Owen laughed, “This relic can’t handle modern games.” Lucas added, “It’s for babies.” They trashed my “old” fridge, “squeaky” beds, and “small” TV. Ben’s efforts—offering comics or a basketball game—met eye-rolls, dimming his spark. I ached for him but stayed quiet, thinking it was short-term.
Their complaints never stopped. They ate like my food was trash and dodged chores like they were allergic. I counted the days until their airport drop-off, freedom near. On the last day, I drove them, their bags stowed. The seatbelt alarm beeped. “Buckle up,” I said. Lucas whined, “It’ll mess up my hoodie.” Owen refused, defiant. I pulled over. “No belts, no ride. It’s a $500 fine each.” They smirked, “Dad’ll pay,” and called him on speaker. “Buckle up!” he snapped, hanging up. They still resisted. I was done.
I shut off the car, stepped out, and stood by the hood, unmoving. For 45 minutes, they sulked and whined, but I held firm. Traffic clogged, and we reached the airport too late—they missed their flight. Their stunned looks were perfect. My brother called, raging. “This is your fault!” I shot back, “Raise kids who respect, not mock, my family.” He hung up. Ben showed me Lucas’s text: “Your mom’s wild.” I grinned. Wild? No, I’m a mom protecting her home. That moment taught them rules apply to everyone, strengthening our family’s heart.
