Entitled Hotel Guest Mocked My Mom Who Works as a Maid, so She Taught Her Never to Mess with Housekeeping Again

Entitled Hotel Guest Mocked My Mom Who Works as a Maid, so She Taught Her Never to Mess with Housekeeping Again

When a devoted hotel maid is tormented by a wealthy and arrogant guest, she devises a plan that turns the tables in the most unexpected way. Instead of seeking revenge with anger, she orchestrates a quiet but powerful act of defiance that forces the cruel woman to face the bitter consequences of her actions.

Woman cleaning a hotel room | Source: Pexels

My mother has always been a source of inspiration for me. As a maid at a fancy local hotel, she takes immense pride in her work. She treats every room as if it were her own, ensuring everything is spotless and welcoming for the guests.

Recently, however, she had an encounter that tested her patience like never before. It all started on a seemingly ordinary day. My mother was assigned to clean room 256, which was occupied by a young woman named Ms. Johnson.

Woman in uniform beside hotel room bed | Source: Pexels

From the moment she stepped into the room, my mother could sense the woman’s dislike for her. Ms. Johnson lounged on the bed, scrolling through her phone, barely acknowledging my mother’s presence.

As my mother meticulously cleaned the room, making sure every surface was spotless, Ms. Johnson suddenly knocked her coffee cup off the table, sending dark liquid spilling onto the freshly mopped floor. She didn’t even flinch. Instead, she looked my mother straight in the eye and sneered, “Clean that up!”

Coffee mug falling | Source: Pexels

My mother’s heart sank. She had worked so hard to make the room perfect, only to see her efforts so carelessly undone. But she knew she couldn’t afford to lose her job. It provided her with a sense of independence and stability for our family.

A person vacuuming a rug | Source: Pexels

Swallowing her pride, she silently cleaned the floor again, all while feeling Ms. Johnson’s piercing gaze on her. As she worked, the woman laughed. The mocking giggle echoed through the room. “Well done for a maid. You didn’t even talk back to me,” she taunted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Tomorrow, I’ll come up with something more interesting for you.”

Woman standing near table with pastries | Source: Pexels

My mother finished her task, holding back tears. She knew showing any sign of distress would only give the woman more satisfaction. That night, as she recounted the story to me, I could see the hurt in her eyes. But there was also a spark of determination. She wasn’t going to let this entitled guest break her spirit.

Mother and daughter sitting at the table holding hands | Source: Pexels

The next day, my mother went to work with a plan. She knew Ms. Johnson would try to humiliate her again, but this time, she was ready. She was determined to show this woman that kindness and respect were not weaknesses and that underestimating the resolve of someone who works with dignity and pride was a grave mistake.

Woman holding a plastic basin with cleaning materials | Source: Pexels

Around mid-morning, my mother walked into room 256 with a steely determination. She had a plan. Sure enough, there she was, Ms. Johnson, reclining on the bed, her smirk already in place.

“Oh, look who’s back,” Ms. Johnson said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Let’s see what mess I can make for you today.” She reached for her coffee cup, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Woman leaning on handrail in a hotel room | Source: Pexels

My mother kept her composure. She knew what to expect. Without a word, she began her cleaning routine, methodically and efficiently, refusing to rise to the bait. As she moved around the room, she noticed something important: Ms. Johnson’s laptop was left open on the table, the screen glowing with unattended work.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” my mother said in her most polite tone. “I need to dust the table. Would you mind closing your laptop?”

Person using phone with laptop on desk | Source: Pexels

Ms. Johnson huffed and rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she muttered, snapping the laptop shut and placing it to the side with an exaggerated sigh. “But hurry up. I have important work to do.”

“Of course, ma’am,” my mother replied, her voice steady.

Woman relaxing in a hotel room | Source: Pexels

“You’re slower than yesterday,” Ms. Johnson remarked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Do they not teach speed in maid school?” My mother ignored the jab, focusing on her task.

Ms. Johnson’s impatience was palpable, and she drummed her fingers on the bedside table. “Done yet?” Ms. Johnson snapped.

Woman tiding up a hotel room | Source: Pexels

“Almost, ma’am,” my mother replied calmly.

Just then, the door opened, and Mr. Ramirez, the hotel manager, appeared. He glanced around the room, his sharp eyes taking in the scene. “Good morning, Ms. Johnson,” he greeted her warmly.

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction?”

Hotel manager entering a room | Source: Pexels

Ms. Johnson scoffed. “It’s fine. Your maid here is just clumsy and slow.”

Mr. Ramirez frowned slightly. “I’m sorry to hear that. Our staff is trained to provide excellent service.”

“Well, maybe she needs more training,” Ms. Johnson said, casting a disdainful look at my mother.

Mr. Ramirez turned to my mother, concern evident in his eyes. “Mrs. Adams, is there a problem?”

My mother met his gaze with her calm and professional demeanor. “No, Mr. Ramirez. Everything is under control.”

A chambermaid holding a stack of towels | Source: Pexels

Mr. Ramirez nodded, though his concern lingered. “Ms. Johnson, I assure you, we will make sure your stay is as comfortable as possible.”

Ms. Johnson waved dismissively. “Just make sure she doesn’t break anything.”

Mr. Ramirez gave my mother an encouraging smile before leaving. As the door closed behind him, my mother felt a surge of quiet confidence. She was ready for whatever Ms. Johnson had in store next.

Woman fixing pillows on the bed | Source: Pexels

My mother continued her work, but she had one more trick up her sleeve. She knew Ms. Johnson would never learn unless she experienced a bit of discomfort herself.

As she finished cleaning, my mother subtly dropped a small, harmless but unpleasant-smelling packet under the bed. It was a trick she had learned from an old colleague, a mixture that would release a gradually intensifying odor over time. It wasn’t immediately noticeable, but within a few hours, it would become quite bothersome.

A tidy hotel room | Source: Pexels

“All done, ma’am,” my mother said standing up and gathering her cleaning supplies. “Have a pleasant day.”

The next morning, my mother arrived at work and was immediately greeted by the sight of Ms. Johnson in the lobby, furiously arguing with Mr. Ramirez. Her face was flushed with anger, and her voice carried through the lobby.

Man and woman standing in a hotel lobby | Source: Pexels’

“I can’t stay in that room! It smells awful! How can you expect guests to stay in such conditions?” Ms. Johnson was practically shouting, drawing the attention of other guests and staff members.

Mr. Ramirez, ever the professional, maintained his calm demeanor. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Ms. Johnson. We take such matters very seriously. We’ll investigate the cause of the smell immediately and move you to another room in the meantime.”

Two people standing at a hotel entrance | Source: Pexels

Ms. Johnson, still fuming, stormed off, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. Mr. Ramirez turned to my mother, who had been quietly watching the scene unfold.

“Mrs. Adams, could you please check Ms. Johnson’s room and see if you can find the source of the smell?” he asked, his voice calm but concerned. “Of course,” my mother replied, hiding a smile. She headed to room 256, her heart pounding with satisfaction.

A clean hotel room | Source: Unsplash

Inside the room, my mother quickly found the packet she had placed under the bed and discreetly removed it. She then opened the windows and turned on the fan, allowing fresh air to circulate and clear the odor. As she worked, she couldn’t help but feel a small surge of triumph. Ms. Johnson had finally tasted a bit of her own medicine.

Woman carrying a stack of towers | Source: Pexels’

As she left the room, she ran into Mr. Ramirez in the hallway. “Did you find the source of the smell?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Ramirez,” my mother replied. “It seems something had been left under the bed. I’ve removed it and aired out the room. It should be fine now.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Adams,” Mr. Ramirez said, a hint of relief in his voice. “You’ve done an excellent job, as always.”

Hotel worker doing room service | Source: Pexels

My mother nodded and continued with her day, knowing that sometimes, justice is served in the smallest of actions. But that wasn’t enough. My mom had one more lesson to teach Ms. Johnson.

The next day, she was assigned to help move Ms. Johnson’s belongings to another room. As usual, Mom did her job efficiently, ensuring every item was carefully placed in the new room.

Delivery man holding a cardboard box | Source: Pexels

Later that afternoon, a courier arrived with a package for room 256; Ms. Johnson’s previous room. Aware that Ms. Johnson had moved to room 312, Mom saw this as her chance to deliver a delayed but impactful lesson.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said to the courier, stepping forward with a polite smile. “The guest in room 256 has been moved to room 312. You can leave the package at the front desk, and I will ensure it gets to her.” The courier nodded, handing over the package. “Thank you. I appreciate it,” he said, already turning to leave.

A person holding a package | Source: Pexels

My mother took the package to the front desk and, with a smile, placed it in the corner behind some other deliveries, making sure it would not be found immediately.

The next day, Ms. Johnson was in a frenzy. She was preparing for her flight and an important event later that evening. Suddenly, she realized something crucial was missing. She frantically called the front desk, her voice shaking with panic.

An angry woman in aa grey tank top | Source: Pexels

“I had a package delivered to room 256. Where is it? It has my plane tickets and my dress for tonight’s event!” Ms. Johnson’s voice was a mix of anger and desperation.

The front desk clerk, taken aback by her intensity, quickly checked the records. After some confusion and a hurried search, they found the package tucked away in the corner. The clerk immediately called my mother to deliver it to Ms. Johnson’s new room, 312.

Receptionist making a phone call | Source: Pexels

My mother, with a calm and measured pace, made her way to the room. She knocked on Ms. Johnson’s door, her expression serene. The woman yanked the door open, her eyes wide with anxiety. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for that package!” she snapped.

“Here is your package, ma’am. It was delivered to the wrong room,” my mother said sweetly, holding out the package.

A person holding a brown box | Source: Pexels

Ms. Johnson snatched the package from her hands and ripped it open. Her face fell as she realized the delay had cost her dearly. The tickets were now useless, and she had no time to prepare for her event. Frustration and defeat were etched into her features. She could only muster a weak, “Thanks,” before slamming the door in my mother’s face.

Mom walked away, a slight smile playing on her lips. She knew she had given Ms. Johnson a taste of her own medicine, all without stepping outside the bounds of her duties. It was a quiet victory, but a deeply satisfying one.

Woman standing under a chandelier of a hotel room | Source: Pexels

When my mother told me about the incident later, I could see the relief in her eyes. “Sometimes,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “the best revenge is simply letting people experience the consequences of their own actions.”

I Gifted My Late Wife’s Apron to My Daughter-in-Law – Imagine My Shock When I Found It in the Dumpster

As Thanksgiving approaches, William mourns his wife, Ellen, and wonders how he’s going to spend their favorite holiday without her. But his daughter-in-law, Amelia, loves to cook and has taken to cooking for dinner. Moved by his feelings and nostalgia, William gifts her Ellen’s most loved and worn apron. But when he finds the apron in the garbage, he realizes that his hurt goes all the way back to his grief, fueling a reaction.

It was the morning before Thanksgiving, and I was feeling the full weight of Ellen not being around anymore. This was the first Thanksgiving without my wife, who had passed away almost a year ago.

A rose on a tombstone | Source: Freepik

I sat on the armchair in my bedroom and left my newspaper to the side. If Ellen were still around, she would have had an entire shopping list ready for me to get.

“It’s just the last-minute things, William,” she would say, absentmindedly doodling on the grocery list while she pondered what else we would need.

A woman writing | Source: Unsplash

“Sure, honey,” I’d always tell her, ready to go to the store and get her everything she needed.

But this year was the first time in 30 years that I wouldn’t have Ellen around for the holidays.

Instead, my son’s wife, Amelia, promised us that she would take over the Thanksgiving dinner.

A smiling young woman | Source: Freepik

“Don’t worry, Dad,” my son, Harry, told me. “Amelia cooks just like Mom, and Mom taught her a few things, too.”

I wasn’t worried about anything. If I had to be honest, I was grateful that the kitchen would be used in all its glory once again. Since Ellen passed away, Harry and Amelia had moved in with me.

A fancy kitchen | Source: Unsplash

“It won’t be for long, Dad,” Harry said. “But I don’t want you to be alone. And this way, Amelia and I can save up for a house in the meantime. We all need to heal together.”

When they moved in, I tried to put a lot of Ellen’s things away. I wanted them to feel at home, too.

Packing boxes | Source: Unsplash

I couldn’t argue with Harry because the thought of being alone in the house that Ellen and I had built was too much. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to cope without her.

I needed the support from my son.

A smiling old man | Source: Unsplash

The longer I sat in my room, wrapped in the thoughts of my wife, the more sentimental I got. Eventually, I decided to pass on something priceless to Amelia.

Opening Ellen’s closet, I pulled out her faded floral apron. It had been around for as long as I could remember, and every holiday had at least one photograph of Ellen in it.

A floral apron | Source: Pexels

There were a few food stains that just couldn’t be removed, but I thought that it added charm to the apron.

I thought that maybe if I passed the apron to Amelia, who shared Ellen’s passion for cooking, she would honor Ellen’s memory and Thanksgiving traditions.

An elderly woman cooking | Source: Pexels

The following morning, I was sitting in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal when Amelia came in, tying her hair and pulling up her sleeves.

“Hi, William,” she said. “Ready for Thanksgiving?”

A man pouring milk into a bowl | Source: Pexels

“Of course, I am,” I said, smiling at her. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do in the kitchen today.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Harry isn’t going to help at all. He’s probably going to watch the parade or look for sports on TV.”

“There’s something I want you to have,” I told her.

A person watching sport on TV | Source: Pexels

I put the folded apron onto the counter and slid it across to her.

“Ellen would have wanted you to have this, Amelia,” I said. “This was her favorite apron, and she wore it for every holiday that involved the kitchen.”

Amelia smiled at me. It was a polite smile; maybe it was a bit strained, but I dismissed it as my own sentimentality clouding my judgment.

A woman with a forced smile | Source: Pexels

She put the apron on, her face changing slightly when she saw how well-worn it was and the old food stains.

“Great, thank you,” she said. “Let’s cook!”

We spent the next few hours cooking together. Amelia did things differently than Ellen. From her cooking style to the actual ingredients used.

A woman cooking | Source: Pexels

I obeyed all her instructions and watched everything she did. It was different from what I was used to. But I still loved that Amelia was stepping up and taking control of the family holidays.

“Do you think we should do a table setting like what Ellen would have done?” she asked me.

A table setting and decor | Source: Unsplash

“Of course,” I said. “It’s just part of the tradition!”

“Then maybe we should get Harry onto that,” she suggested.

The rest of the day flew by in the kitchen with cooking preparations. Every single time I thought of Ellen, I distracted myself with another task.

A man chopping mushrooms | Source: Pexels

I watched as Amelia bustled around the kitchen in what seemed like genuine delight. As our closest family and friends began showing up for dinner, I went upstairs to freshen up for the occasion.

Everything was perfect, including Harry’s table setting. I missed Ellen throughout the evening, especially when the pies came out. My wife had a tradition of eating two slices of pie, one pecan and one pumpkin.

A pumpkin pie | Source: Pexels

“It’s the one time of year that I eat them,” she would say, spraying whipped cream all over the slices of pie on her plate.

Now, as Harry cut into the pumpkin pie, he caught my eye and smiled, handing me the first piece.

“For Mom,” he said.

Cream on a slice of pie | Source: Pexels

Everything seemed perfect. I went to bed that evening feeling as though my wife had been present. She was there, in the quiet moments after the dinner party, when I loaded the dishwasher and made myself a cup of tea.

But then, with the next morning came a different set of heartbreak.

A person stocking the dishwasher | Source: Unsplash

I was out, taking my usual walk around the block. While taking a shortcut back home through the alley behind our house, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. A glimpse of floral fabric, peering out from the top of our dumpster.

A man talking a walk | Source: Pexels

It was Ellen’s apron, discarded and partially covered in the newspaper that I had been reading and other refuse.

My heart sank, bringing a different sense of grief to me.

The apron that held so many cherished memories of Ellen was thrown away like common trash.

Outdoor trashcans | Source: Pexels

I retrieved the apron, the dew having made it damp in the crisp morning.

“How could Amelia do this?” I asked myself.

It felt like a betrayal, not just of Ellen’s memory, but of the love and trust that I had placed in her.

An old man holding his chin | Source: Unsplash

I could have let it go. I would have chalked it up to Amelia not wanting to wear something old, or even not wanting to wear something that once belonged to her mother-in-law. But it was the cold way in which she had discarded it.

Determined to teach her a lesson about respect and the value of memories, I thought that I’d sit down to tea with her and talk about cooking. It was the one thing that we constantly bonded over.

A cup of tea | Source: Pexels

Amelia agreed, unaware that I knew about the apron. She followed me up the stairs, and I led her to the attic.

“Come on,” I said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

“Oh, William,” she said when she looked around the attic and saw the neatly preserved boxes.

An attic with stacked boxes and clothing | Source: Midjourney

“I’ve never been in here,” she said. “I didn’t know that we had an attic in this house.”

I stepped aside, allowing her to get into the room properly.

“Since you didn’t find value in the apron, maybe you’ll find something here that you won’t just throw away,” I said, my voice colder than I intended.

A woman covering her face with her hands | Source: Pexels

Amelia, visibly uncomfortable, shifted from foot to foot.

“William, I…” she began, her voice trailing off when she saw the apron hanging from a hook across the room.

I stood in silence as she tried to apologize, but her words seemed hollow.

A woman holding her face | Source: Pexels

“Look,” I said. “Maybe I forced it onto you, and I’m sorry about that, Amelia. But at the same time, I just thought that it would have been something to pass on to you. Not to mention that it was comforting for Harry and me to see.”

She nodded, nervously looking at the door. She was probably wondering if I had told Harry about the incident. I hadn’t. I didn’t want to create any unpleasantness between them.

A couple sitting uncomfortably | Source: Pexels

But I still felt like a rift had been caused between us. As we continued to live under the same roof, I kept to myself as much as possible. I wasn’t angry with Amelia. I was hurt.

I was hurt on behalf of myself, of Ellen, and even Harry, who didn’t know any better.

I knew that I would get over it eventually, but for now, I just needed to let myself grieve my wife, and keep her memory strong.

A smiling old couple | Source: Pexels

What would you have done?