An entitled mom thought breaking my little daughter’s iPad would end her son’s tantrums. But what came next left her more panicked than I could’ve imagined. Karma works fast… even at 30,000 feet!
I, Bethany, 35 years old, never thought a two-hour flight could change so much. But there I was, settling into my seat with my five-year-old daughter Ella next to me. As the plane taxied down the runway, I breathed a sigh of relief. Ella was contentedly watching cartoons on her iPad, headphones snug on her ears…
“You comfy, sweetie?” I asked, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.
Ella nodded, her eyes glued to the screen. “Uh-huh. Can I have juice later?”
“Of course,” I smiled, reaching for my book. “Just let me know when you’re thirsty.”
As I cracked open my novel, movement across the aisle caught my eye. A family of three had just sat down: a couple and a little boy around Ella’s age. He was squirming in his seat, whining loudly.
“I’m bored!” he wailed, kicking the seat in front of him.
His mother shushed him. “We told you, no screens on this trip. Be a good boy.”
The boy’s whining intensified, and I saw his gaze lock onto Ella’s iPad.
Oh boy, I thought. This might be a long flight.
Twenty minutes in, a tap on my shoulder made me look up. The mom from across the aisle was leaning towards me, a tight smile on her face.
“Hi there! I couldn’t help but notice your daughter’s iPad. We’ve decided to be responsible parents and not give our son any screen time this vacation. Would you mind putting that away? It’s making him upset.”
I blinked, stunned by her audacity. “Excuse me?”
“It’s just… it’s not fair to him, you know?”
I took a deep breath, reminding myself to stay calm. “I’m sorry, but no. My daughter’s using it to stay calm during the flight.”
The woman’s smile vanished instantly. “Wow, really? You’d rather ruin our family trip than have your daughter take a break from her precious screen?”
“Listen,” I said, my patience wearing thin, “she’s quietly minding her own business. Your son could do the same if you’d brought him something to do.”
The woman, let’s just call her “Entitled Mom (EM)” was visibly frustrated.
“Some parents just can’t say no to their kids these days. No wonder they all end up spoiled.”
I turned back to my book, hoping that would end the conversation. But I could feel her glare burning into the side of my head.
“Everything okay, Mommy?” Ella asked, momentarily looking up from her show.
“Everything’s fine, sweetie. Just keep watching your cartoons.”
The next hour was tense. The boy’s tantrum escalated, his wails piercing through the cabin noise.
His parents shot us dirty looks every few minutes, as if we were personally responsible for their poor planning.
“I want that!” the boy shrieked, pointing at Ella’s iPad. “It’s not fair!”
His mother leaned over. “I know, honey. Some people are just SELFISH!”
I gritted my teeth, focusing on my book. The words blurred as I tried to block out the chaos around us. Ella remained oblivious, lost in her cartoons.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted beside us. Entitled Mom had leaned across the aisle, reaching for her bag. But instead of grabbing her belongings, her arm knocked into Ella’s tray table.
Time seemed to slow as I watched Ella’s iPad slide off the tray. It hit the floor with a sickening crack, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of fractures.
Ella’s scream cut through the air. “Mommy, my iPad!”
Entitled Mom’s face lit with fake surprise. “Oh no! I didn’t mean to do that! So clumsy of me!”
But I saw the glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. This was NO ACCIDENT.
“What is wrong with you?” I hissed.
She shrugged, not even trying to hide her smugness. “These things happen. Maybe it’s a sign she needs less screen time.”
I was about to unleash a torrent of words that would make a sailor blush when a flight attendant appeared.
“Is everything alright here?” she asked, eyeing the shattered iPad.
Entitled Mom’s act kicked into high gear. “Oh, it was just a terrible accident. I feel awful!”
I opened my mouth to argue, but the flight attendant cut me off with a sympathetic smile.
“I’m so sorry about your device, ma’am. Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do mid-flight. Please let us know if you need anything else.”
As she walked away, I turned to comfort my distraught daughter, knowing this battle was far from over. But it seemed karma had other plans.
With Ella’s iPad out of commission, the boy’s tantrum reached new heights. He bounced in his seat, kicked the chair in front of him, and yanked on the tray table.
“Sweetie, please settle down,” Entitled Mom pleaded.
“I’m bored! This is the worst trip ever!”
I watched from the corner of my eye, torn between sympathy for the child and a petty sense of satisfaction at Entitled Mom’s struggle.
Ella tugged on my sleeve, her eyes still watery. “Mommy, can you fix it?”
I hugged her close. “I’m sorry, sweetie. We’ll have to get it looked at when we land. How about we read a book instead?”
As I reached into my bag for another book, chaos erupted across the aisle.
The boy, in a fit of hyperactivity, had knocked over Entitled Mom’s coffee cup. The dark liquid spread across her lap and splashed into her open handbag.
“No, no, no!” she cried, frantically trying to save her belongings.
In her haste to rescue her bag, something fell out and landed on the floor. Yikes! It was a small blue booklet. I took a closer look and gasped. It was her PASSPORT!
Before anyone could react, her son’s foot came down on the fallen document, grinding it into the coffee-soaked carpet.
God, you should’ve seen Entitled Mom’s face. It was EPIC!
She snatched up the passport, but the damage was done. The pages were soaked through, stuck together in a soggy mess. The cover was warped beyond recognition. It looked like a water-logged, soggy piece of toast.
“Ma’am?” A flight attendant approached. “Is that your passport?”
Entitled Mom nodded, speechless for once.
“I’m so sorry, but I have to inform you that a damaged passport could cause serious issues when we land. Especially if you’re traveling internationally.”
Entitled Mom’s eyes widened in panic. She turned to her husband, seeking a way out. “What are we going to do? Our connecting flight to Paris leaves in three hours!”
Her husband shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Maybe we can explain at customs?”
As they bickered, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of malevolence.
As the plane began its descent, Entitled Mom was frantically dabbing at her ruined passport with tissues, muttering under her breath. Her son, exhausted from his earlier tantrums, had finally fallen asleep.
I leaned over to Ella, who was reading her storybook with a big smile. “Great job, sweetie! You’re a real bookworm!”
She beamed at me, her earlier distress over the iPad forgotten. “Can we bake cupcakes when we get home, Mommy?”
“Absolutely,” I promised, ruffling her hair. “And maybe we can bake some cookies too!”
A soft whimper from across the aisle drew my attention. Entitled Mom was on the phone, her eyes brimming with panic.
“Yes, I understand it’s last minute, but we need to reschedule our entire trip. No, we can’t make the connecting flight. Because… because my passport is ruined.”
I couldn’t help but overhear as she explained the situation, detailing how she’d have to go through the process of getting an emergency passport before they could continue their journey.
As we began to taxi to our gate, Entitled Mom caught my eye as we stood to disembark.
For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of remorse in her eyes. But then her son started whining again, and the moment passed.
“Ready to go, Ella?” I asked, helping her gather her things.
“Can we get ice cream at the airport, Mommy?”
“I think we deserve a little treat, don’t you think?!” I laughed.
As we made our way off the plane, I couldn’t help but reflect on the bizarre turn of events. What had started as a simple two-hour flight had turned into a lesson in karma, patience, and the unpredictability of travel.
I glanced back one last time to see Entitled Mom still frantically trying to salvage her ruined passport. It was a grim reminder that our actions, good or bad, often have unexpected consequences.
Turns out, it wasn’t just Ella’s iPad that got ruined on that flight. Entitled Mom ended up losing something much more valuable!
As we walked hand in hand towards the baggage claim, I squeezed Ella’s fingers, thankful for the perspective this chaotic flight had given me. Sometimes, the best lessons come from the worst experiences.
Have you ever encountered a nightmare neighbor on a flight? Share your own flight horror stories in the comments!
Just a Month After Mom’s Death, Dad Brought a Young Mistress Into Our Home for Christmas – I Was Shocked When I Saw Her
Just a month after my mother lost her battle with cancer, Dad brought his mistress home for Christmas and introduced her as my “NEW MOM.” My heart shattered, but it wasn’t the only thing that left me shaken.
My hands won’t stop trembling as I write this. I need to share about a Christmas dinner that turned into a nightmare and showed me how quickly a family can shatter. There are some moments you wish you could forget, but they end up teaching you the hardest lessons about life, grief, and what it means to move on.
An upset woman | Source: Pexels
It’s been exactly one month since we buried Mom. For three years she fought cancer, and even at the end, she never stopped being… Mom. I remember her last day so clearly — the beeping machines, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the hospital window, and how she squeezed my hand with surprising strength.
“Lily, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice raspy but determined. “Promise me something?”
“Anything, Mom.” I was trying so hard not to cry.
“Take care of your sisters. And your father… he doesn’t do well alone. Never has.” She smiled that soft smile of hers. “But make sure he remembers me?”
“How could anyone forget you?” I choked out.
That was our last real conversation. She slipped away the next morning, with my sisters Sarah and Katie holding one hand and me holding the other.
People at a funeral | Source: Pexels
The first week after the funeral, I moved back home. Dad seemed lost, wandering the house like a ghost. I’d find him standing near Mom’s closet, just staring at her clothes. Or sitting in her garden, touching the roses she’d tended so carefully.
“He’s not eating,” Katie reported during our daily sister check-in calls. “I brought over lasagna, and it’s still sitting untouched in the fridge.”
“Same with the casserole I made,” Sarah added. “Should we be worried?”
I thought we should be. But then everything changed.
It started small. Two weeks after the funeral, Dad cleaned out Mom’s closet without telling any of us. Just boxed everything up and dropped it at the local charity.
An empty wardrobe | Source: Pexels
“Her favorite sweater?” I asked, horrified when I found out. “The blue one she always wore for Christmas?”
“It’s just taking up space, Lily,” he said, suddenly practical. “Your mom wouldn’t want us dwelling.”
A few days later, he joined a gym. He started getting haircuts at some trendy place instead of the salon where Mom had known the owner for 20 years. He bought new clothes and even started humming while doing dishes. At 53, Dad was starting to act like a 20-year-old young man.
“He’s handling it differently,” Katie insisted during one of our emergency meetings at my apartment. “Everyone grieves in their own way.”
I was pacing, unable to sit still. “This isn’t grief. He’s acting like he just got released from prison instead of losing his wife of 30 years.”
A distressed woman | Source: Midjourney
Sarah curled up on my couch and tried to keep peace. “Maybe he’s trying to stay strong for us? You know how Mom always worried about him being alone.”
“There’s a difference between being strong and whatever this is,” I said, watching through my window as night fell over the city. “Something’s not right.”
I had no idea how not right things were about to get.
“Girls,” Dad called us into the living room one evening, his voice weirdly excited. “Family meeting. I have something important to tell you.”
He’d gotten all dressed up — a new shirt, pressed slacks, and polished shoes. He’d even put on cologne. Mom’s picture smiled down from the mantel as we gathered, and I swear Dad’s eyes looked delighted.
A senior man in a suit | Source: Pexels
“I’ve met someone special,” he announced, practically bouncing on his feet. “Her name is Amanda, and I want you all to meet her.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Katie’s face went white. Sarah started fidgeting with her ring.
“What exactly do you mean you’ve met someone?” My voice came out strangled.
Dad’s smile never wavered. “I mean I’m not getting any younger, Lily. Life goes on. Amanda makes me happy, and I want her to be part of our family.”
“Part of our family?” Katie’s voice cracked. “Dad, Mom’s been gone for three weeks!”
“And what am I supposed to do?” He crossed his arms. “Sit alone in this empty house forever?”
A stunned young woman facing a man | Source: Midjourney
“Maybe grieve?” I suggested, my anger rising. “Remember your wife? Our mother?”
“I am grieving,” he snapped. “But I’m also living. Your mother wouldn’t want me to be lonely all my life, girls!”
“Don’t.” I stood up. “Don’t you dare tell us what Mom would want. You don’t get to use her to justify this.”
Dad just walked away, scowling, leaving the three of us in a daze.
A week later, he dropped the next bomb.
“Christmas dinner,” he announced over the phone. “I want Amanda to join us.”
Close-up of a man holding his coat | Source: Pexels
I nearly dropped my coffee mug. “You’re bringing her to Christmas dinner? Mom’s favorite holiday?”
“It’s the perfect time for everyone to meet,” he said, sounding irritatingly reasonable. “Amanda’s excited to meet you all. She’s even offered to help cook.”
“Help cook?” I gripped the phone tighter. “In Mom’s kitchen? Using Mom’s recipes?”
“Lily—”
“Mom’s been gone for four weeks, Dad. Four. Weeks.”
“And what should I do?” His voice rose. “Cancel Christmas? Sit alone while my daughters judge me?”
“Maybe respect Mom’s memory? Remember 30 years of marriage? The woman who spent last Christmas in the hospital still trying to make it special for everyone?”
A furious woman | Source: Midjourney
“I’m still your father,” he said sharply. “And Amanda is coming to Christmas dinner. That’s final.”
“Fine.” I hung up and immediately called my sisters.
“He’s lost his mind,” Katie declared during our emergency video chat. “Completely lost it.”
Sarah looked like she might cry. “What do we do?”
I had an idea forming. A terrible, perfect idea.
Christmas Eve arrived cold and snowy. I spent the morning in Mom’s kitchen making her stuffing recipe. Every few minutes I caught myself turning to ask her a question, the grief hitting fresh each time I remembered she wasn’t there.
A woman decorating a Christmas tree | Source: Pexels
Katie arrived early to help, bringing Mom’s special tablecloth, the one with tiny embroidered holly leaves that Mom would spend hours ironing each year.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Katie admitted as we set the table. “Kept thinking about Mom, how she’d make us polish the silver until it sparkled.”
“Remember how she’d position everything just right?” Sarah added, arriving with pies. “The centerpiece had to be exactly in the middle.”
“And the photos,” I smiled sadly. “So many photos before anyone could eat.”
“Dad would complain his food was getting cold,” Katie laughed, then stopped abruptly. “God, I miss her.”
A sad woman with her eyes downcast | Source: Midjourney
The doorbell rang at exactly six. Dad rushed to answer it, checking his reflection in the hall mirror first.
“Everyone,” his voice boomed with pride, “this is Amanda.”
I was stunned. She couldn’t have been older than 25. Long blonde hair, expensive boots, perfect makeup. She looked like she could have been our younger sister. My father looked like he’d won the lottery.
“This is your new MOM!” He announced, his arm around her waist. “I hope you all got her something nice for Christmas!”
Katie dropped her wine glass. The red spread across Mom’s white tablecloth like a wound, the holly leaves disappearing under the stain.
A woman smiling | Source: Midjourney
Dinner was excruciating. Amanda kept trying to make a conversation, her voice high and nervous.
“This stuffing is amazing,” she said. “Family recipe?”
“My mother’s recipe,” I replied, emphasizing each word. “She made it every Christmas for 30 years. This was her favorite holiday.”
“Oh.” Amanda pushed food around her plate. “I’m so sorry about your loss. George told me—”
“George?” I cut her off with a wicked grin. “You mean Dad?”
Dad cleared his throat. “Lily!”
A woman grinning | Source: Midjourney
“No, I want to know… when exactly did he tell you about Mom? Before or after he asked you out?”
“Lily, stop,” Dad whispered.
“Did he tell you she spent three years fighting cancer? That she was still having chemo this time last year?” I couldn’t stop. “That she made him promise to keep our family together?”
“That’s enough!” Dad’s voice thundered across the table.
Amanda looked close to tears. “I should probably—”
“No, stay,” Dad insisted. “Family gets uncomfortable sometimes. That’s normal.”
A startled woman | Source: Midjourney
“Family?” I laughed bitterly. “She’s practically my age, Dad. This isn’t family. It’s creepy.”
“Present time!” Dad announced after dinner, desperate to change the mood. He’d always played Santa, but watching him do it now felt wrong.
I watched Amanda open gifts — a scarf from Katie, a gift card from Sarah. Then she reached for my carefully wrapped box.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she gasped, lifting out the antique jewelry box. Mom’s favorite, the one she’d kept her wedding ring in. “Thank you, Lily. This is so thoughtful.”
“Open it,” I said softly. “There’s something special inside.”
A woman holding a gift box | Source: Pexels
The room fell silent as she lifted the lid. Inside lay a photograph of Mom in her garden last summer, surrounded by her roses and all three of us girls beside her. Her last good day before the hospital. Her smile was still bright and full of life, even though we knew what was coming.
Beneath it lay my note: “You are not my mother. No one will ever replace her. Remember that.”
Amanda’s hands started shaking. “I… I need to go.”
“Honey, wait—” Dad reached for her, but she was already running, leaving her coat and muffler behind as she fled into the snowy night.
A woman walking away | Source: Pexels
Dad came back inside alone, snow melting on his shoulders, his face ashen.
“What did you do?” he demanded.
“I gave her a reality check,” I stood my ground. “Did you really think you could replace Mom with someone my age and we’d just accept it?”
“You had no right,” he growled. “You’re not letting me live my life!”
“Live your life? Mom’s been dead for four weeks! Her side of the bed isn’t even cold!” I was shouting now, years of watching Mom suffer, weeks of watching Dad move on, all pouring out at once. “Did you even love her?”
An angry woman | Source: Pexels
“How dare you?” His voice broke. “I loved your mother for 30 years. I watched her fight. I watched her die. But she’s gone, Lily. She’s gone, and I’m still here. What am I supposed to do?”
“Not this,” I whispered, tears finally falling. “Anything but this.”
Katie and Sarah stood frozen, Christmas tree lights casting shadows on their tears. Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering Amanda’s footprints as she’d run away from our family’s broken pieces.
My dad blamed me for not letting him move on, but I think his actions were deeply disrespectful to my late mother. I firmly believe I did the right thing by defending her memory and making it unequivocally clear to Amanda that she could never fill my mother’s shoes.
A woman sitting on the couch | Source: Midjourney
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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