When my brother asked me to watch his sons, Tyler and Jaden, for two weeks while he and his wife jetted off on a luxury vacation, I agreed — despite my gut warning me otherwise.

They arrived with designer luggage and snobby attitudes, immediately mocking my cooking, my modest home, and even my son Adrian’s laptop. Everything we offered was beneath them. Still, I bit my tongue.

Adrian, bless him, tried hard to connect, but they sneered at his efforts — his Legos, his games, even playing outside. Every day felt like surviving royalty in exile. I counted down the days until their transfer to their grandmother.

On the final day, I loaded them into my car. But when I told them to buckle up, Tyler scoffed, “It wrinkles my shirt,” and Jaden smirked, “Dad doesn’t care.”

“Well, I do,” I said, pulling over.

They called their dad, who quickly snapped, “Just buckle up!” and hung up. Still, they refused. So, I shut off the engine and waited. Forty-five minutes of sulking later, they finally caved.

But karma had its moment — we hit traffic and missed their flight.

My brother called, furious. I’d had enough. “Maybe if you’d taught your kids respect and safety, we wouldn’t be here,” I snapped.

He hung up. Later, Adrian showed me Tyler’s text: “Your mom’s insane.”

I just smiled. No, sweetie. I’m not insane. I just don’t bend to bratty behavior.

Sometimes, the best lesson is the one that makes you miss your flight.