I was standing in line at the grocery store, minding my own business, when a young woman—drenched in entitlement—shoved her groceries onto my conveyor belt without a word. No “excuse me,” no eye contact. Just pure arrogance. She looked me up and down like I was invisible. I didn’t say a word. I simply let her cut ahead, watching her flounce off with her overpriced kale and designer purse. I knew something she didn’t: karma was already on its way.
Later that evening, I was setting the table for dinner when my son walked in with a guest. My jaw nearly dropped. There she was—the same “princess” from the store—now standing in my home, clutching her purse like it was a lifeline. Her face drained of color when she realized who I was. I greeted her warmly, pretending not to recognize her, but the panic in her eyes told me she remembered everything. My son, oblivious, introduced her as his new girlfriend.
Dinner was awkward. She barely touched her food, and I could see her squirming with every polite question I asked. I wasn’t cruel—I simply let the silence do the talking. My son, bless him, kept trying to bridge the tension, but she was unraveling. I didn’t need revenge. The universe had already served it. Watching her struggle to reconcile her earlier behavior with the reality of who I was—his mother—was more satisfying than any confrontation.
After they left, my son texted me, confused by her sudden change in demeanor. I told him nothing, letting him figure it out on his own. The lesson was hers to learn. Entitlement might get you ahead in a grocery line, but it won’t save you at the dinner table of the woman whose kindness you mistook for weakness. That night, I didn’t just serve dinner—I served poetic justice.
