Despite my efforts to maintain peace, the complaints and comments didn’t stop. My home was treated more like a hotel they hadn’t chosen than a place where family had welcomed them with open arms.
Then came the final day.
On the way to the airport, I asked them to buckle their seatbelts. Tyler rolled his eyes. “We don’t wear seatbelts—it wrinkles our shirts. Dad doesn’t care.” I calmly pulled over. “Well, I do,” I said. “No seatbelts, no ride.”
Jaden scoffed. “You’re not serious.”
But I was.
I explained that not wearing a seatbelt carries a fine. They laughed it off and even called their dad on speakerphone. He told them to buckle up and hung up. Still, they refused.
So I waited. I stood outside the car in silence as they fumed inside. Forty-five minutes passed before Tyler finally gave in, followed by Jaden. By then, we were cutting it close.
Too close.
We arrived at the airport just ten minutes too late. They missed their flight.
They stood in stunned silence, and I said nothing. But inside, I felt no guilt. I had followed the law, modeled boundaries, and refused to compromise safety for convenience.
Later, my brother called, frustrated. “You should’ve just driven them,” he said.
That was the moment I finally spoke my mind.
“I followed the rules and kept your kids safe,” I said calmly. “Maybe if they were used to hearing ‘no,’ this wouldn’t have been such a shock.”
He hung up.
That evening, Adrian showed me a text from Tyler that read, “Your mom is crazy.” I smiled.
No, I’m not. I just have clear boundaries—and maybe, just maybe, his dad should too.
I don’t regret what happened that day. Not the wait, not the missed flight, and not the difficult conversation. If those boys learned even one lesson about respect and accountability, it was worth every minute.