Demanding Parents Expect Nanny to Pay $1000 for Vacation Flights – Their Harsh Reality Check

“Jane, we need to talk about the vacation.”

I nodded, curious.

We had been home for two days now. Back from our trip to the seaside, staying in a luxurious resort. It was almost the break I needed, minus the fact that I had the Smiths’ three children, and their friends, the Johnsons’ two sons to care for as well.

I was just doing my job in a fancier location.

“Of course,” I said. “It was a lovely trip. Thank you again for inviting me.”

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Smith started. “We need to discuss the plane tickets. When will you be able to return the $1000?”

I blinked. I was sure that I had misheard her.

“Sorry, $1000? For the tickets? What?”

“Yes, for the tickets, Jane,” she spoke slowly as if I was stupid. “We spent a lot on them, and we thought you’d be grateful enough to pay us back.”

My heart raced. I didn’t have that kind of money to spare. I was their full-time nanny, with a mother to care for at home.

“But you told me that everything was sorted. You said, ‘Don’t worry about it, Jane. We’ve got it all covered.’”

Mrs. Smith’s expression hardened. Mr. Smith gazed at me.

“That was before the Johnsons refused to sign a business deal with Craig. That was the entire purpose of the holiday. Mr. Smith and I needed to woo them. So, there’s no need to seem generous now, Jane. You have exactly one week to return the money, or it will be taken from your pay.”

I was stunned. The room felt like it was spinning.

“But… I can’t afford that, Mrs. Smith,” I admitted. “Most of my salary goes to the rent at home and my mother’s medication. I can’t take that away from her. And you didn’t mention anything about paying you back!”

“That’s not our problem, Jane. One week,” Mr. Smith reiterated, reaching for a croissant from the tea tray left for Mrs. Smith. With a wave of his hand, he signaled the end of the discussion.

That night, I sat in my tiny room a few feet away from the Smiths’ house. I was seething. How could they do this? I needed a plan, and I needed it fast.

Then it hit me: the Smiths cared deeply about their social standing and their reputation.

“Of course, that’s all they care about,” I muttered to myself as I brushed my teeth before bed. “But I can use that to my advantage.”

The next day, after I dropped the kids off at school, I created a fake email account. I drafted a polite but detailed message about my experience, making sure to be clear without naming any names.

But there were enough telltale signs pointing to the Smiths, from their cars to the kids, to the gold facial appointments that Mrs. Smith bragged about.

Thereafter, I sent it to the key people in their social circle, including the other influential families that the Smiths wanted to be in league with.

“I just don’t understand what they want from us,” I overheard Mrs. Smith say into the phone later that day. “Eva asked me if everything is true, but I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

A few days later, the gossip started spreading. The Smiths’ dirty little secret on how they treated “their staff” was out, and naturally, their reputation took a hit.

Mrs. Smith called in a masseuse to soothe her muscles.

“Just let them into the spa when they arrive, Jane,” she said. “I need all the help I can get.”

Later that day, when I went to pick the kids up from school, the other nannies were hanging about, waiting for the bell to ring.

“Did you read the email about the Smiths?” one of the nannies said. “Jane, are they really like that?”

I nodded.

“They’re good parents, but they’re horrible people,” I admitted, not wanting to give away that I was the person who sent out the email.

“How long will you work for them?” another asked me. “I couldn’t live or work under those circumstances. Rich people need to learn that respect for them is earned, too.”

I smiled.

The nannies went back and forth as we waited. And through their chatter, I discovered something interesting about Mrs. Smith.

Turns out that my employer had a habit of “borrowing” items from her friends and never returning them.

“An entire Gucci handbag, Jane,” Mina said. “Mrs. Smith asked my ma’am if she could borrow it for a fundraising gala two months ago.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I said, shocked. “I didn’t know that she was capable of that sort of thing. But she doesn’t like me getting too close to her things anyway.”

A few days later, Mrs. Smith held one of her ladies’ luncheons. It was a monthly event that she loved hosting, but this time it was only two weeks into the month.

“I need this to go well, Jane,” she said as I cut fruit up for the kids. “So, you need to attend it. The kids will be at school. Everything will be catered for. Just walk around and talk to the women. Make us seem human.”

I knew that she was puzzling. She must have heard more than enough through the grapevine.

During the event, I walked around as requested of me. But I wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip. And I had nothing to lose. The Smiths were probably going to fire me at the end of the week when I couldn’t make the $1000.

“We’ll deal with it, darling,” my mother coughed into the phone when I told her the truth of the matter.

At the luncheon, I walked around, casually mentioning to the ladies how much I admired Mrs. Smith’s collection, making sure that I spoke to Eva, Mina’s employer.

“Mrs. Smith has a stunning handbag similar to yours,” I said. “Gucci. Did she lend you this one? She’s always telling me that she lends her things out because she has so much.”

Eva looked at me over the top of her champagne glass.

“Is that so, Jane?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

Whispers started circulating. By the end of the luncheon, Mrs. Smith’s reputation for borrowing without returning was the hot topic.

The next morning, her friends began asking for their things back.

Mrs. Smith was mortified.

During dinner the next night, Mr. Smith called me to the table, asking me to join them.

“Thank you, but I usually wait for Ivy and Melanie to eat,” I said politely, mentioning the chef and her helper.

“No, sit with us,” he insisted.

I obliged.

Despite his tone, I hoped that maybe he was going to tell me that the money could be forgotten. And that everything would return as normal.

“It has come to my attention that an anonymous email has gone out,” he said, cutting into his steak.

“A disgusting email,” Mrs. Smith added, taking a long sip of her wine.

“Did you have anything to do with it?” he asked me, his eyes trying to coax a confession out of me.

I shook my head, looking down at my plate.

“Then that settles it,” he said, knowingly. “You’re dismissed. You can pack up and get out tomorrow.”

I did exactly as I was told and moved back home. A week later, Mrs. Johnson called me.

“Jane, can you come over for tea?” she asked warmly.

“Of course, Mrs. Johnson,” I replied, curious about the nature of the invitation.

As we sat in her luxurious living room, she looked at me with genuine concern.

“I heard about what the Smiths did to you. It’s disgraceful.”

I nodded, trying to keep my composure.

“Well,” she continued. “We’ve decided to cut ties with the Smiths entirely. And we’d like to offer you a job. Better pay, better working conditions. We could use someone like you for our kids.”

I was stunned.

“Of course!” I exclaimed. I needed the job desperately.

“You’ve earned it,” she smiled. “The boys loved having you watch them during the holiday. And somehow, you got Jonathan to eat his peas!”

I don’t know how the Smiths reacted to me working for the Johnsons, but I hoped that they felt betrayed.

What would you have done?

My Husband Invited His Entire Office to Our Thanksgiving Without Telling Me – My Revenge Was Delicious

When Zoe’s husband invites 15 coworkers to Thanksgiving — without warning — her cozy holiday turns chaotic. With a smile sharper than her carving knife, she channels her fury into orchestrating a feast they’ll never forget. Can she pull it off while teaching her husband a lesson he won’t live down?

Thanksgiving morning came in like a hurricane. My coffee had gone cold on the counter while I darted between rescuing the living room walls from Emma’s artistic endeavors and intercepting Jake, who’d somehow scaled the counter to get his tiny hands on a plate of cookies.

A boy reaching for a cookie | Source: Midjourney

A boy reaching for a cookie | Source: Midjourney

“Emma, honey, we color on paper, not the walls,” I said, peeling the crayon from her sticky fingers.

She looked up at me with a grin both innocent and maddening.

“Jake!” I called, snatching the plate just as he made off with another cookie. He gave me a gummy smile, crumbs tumbling down his chin like tiny confessions.

A boy holding a cookie | Source: Midjourney

A boy holding a cookie | Source: Midjourney

I sighed and scooped him off the counter, setting him on the floor with a toy spatula as a peace offering.

The turkey was in the oven, the table half-set, and the mashed potatoes — well, they were still more like potato chunks, but I was determined.

Hosting Thanksgiving was my Everest every year. Sure, it was stressful, but there was something deeply satisfying about pulling it off, even if my in-laws did nothing but offer critiques disguised as helpful suggestions.

A woman cooking | Source: Midjourney

A woman cooking | Source: Midjourney

I’d barely taken a breath when the front door slammed open. Dan’s voice boomed through the chaos.

“We’re here!”

We?

I turned, still holding a bowl of partly mashed potatoes, to see Dan standing in the entryway. He was beaming, the kind of grin he wore when he’d made a decision he thought was brilliant but was about to wreck my day.

A man standing in a doorway | Source: Midjourney

A man standing in a doorway | Source: Midjourney

Behind him, a parade of unfamiliar faces streamed in, each looking ready for a party. Some held bottles of wine or bags of snacks, while others glanced around uncertainly, clearly sensing that their arrival wasn’t as warmly anticipated as Dan had promised.

“Dan,” I said slowly, my voice edged with warning, “who’s ‘we’?”

He didn’t notice the tension in my tone, and even worse, chose to ignore it. His grin widened, oblivious to the rising storm.

A smiling man | Source: Midjourney

A smiling man | Source: Midjourney

“I invited a few coworkers,” he said casually as if this were something we’d discussed in detail and agreed upon over breakfast. “They didn’t have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving. Isn’t that what the holidays are all about?”

I stared at him, the words not quite connecting in my brain. Did he seriously just say a few coworkers? My grip tightened around the bowl of potatoes, the ridges of its edge digging into my palms.

“A few?” I managed, my voice climbing a little higher with each word.

A shocked woman holding a bowl | Source: Midjourney

A shocked woman holding a bowl | Source: Midjourney

“Fifteen,” he replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He was still grinning, proud of his altruistic brilliance. “But it’s no big deal! Just make a couple more portions. You’re great at this stuff.”

I blinked, the number reverberating in my skull. Fifteen. Fifteen unexpected, unplanned, utterly uninvited people standing in my house on Thanksgiving, the day I dreaded each year for its precise balancing act of chaos and tradition.

For a moment, I was too stunned to do anything but picture my bowl of potatoes sailing through the air toward Dan’s head.

A bowl of potatoes flying through the air | Source: DALL-E

A bowl of potatoes flying through the air | Source: DALL-E

The fantasy was short-lived but oh-so-satisfying. I could almost hear the splat as the potatoes scattered like confetti.

But alas, I was not the kind of woman who hurled produce. At least, not yet.

Instead, I took a deep breath, the kind that makes your chest feel too tight but stops you from screaming. Plastering on a smile that felt more like barbed wire than warmth, I pivoted toward the living room, where Dan’s coworkers were now awkwardly congregating near the couch.

People standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney

People standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney

Emma was circling their legs like a determined little tornado, holding up her latest crayon masterpiece, while Jake toddled around with a triumphant fistful of crackers he’d scavenged from God knows where.

“Welcome, everyone!” I called, clapping my hands together so loudly it startled one poor guy into dropping his snack bag. “So glad you could join us! Since this was a little… unexpected,” I said, letting the pause hang heavily in the air, “I’ll need some help to make it all come together.”

Dan’s grin faltered. That alone was enough to give me a spark of satisfaction.

A man standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney

A man standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney

“Uh, I thought you had everything under control—”

“Oh, I do,” I said sweetly, my voice dripping with the kind of sugary determination that made my children instinctively behave. “But you can take the kids upstairs so I can focus down here.”

He opened his mouth to argue, the flicker of panic crossing his face suggesting he realized too late that he had underestimated the situation.

I gave him a pointed look. He closed his mouth and glanced around the room for an ally. None of his coworkers made eye contact. They all suddenly seemed deeply interested in the patterns on my living room rug. Smart move.

People standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney

People standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney

With Dan momentarily neutralized, I turned back to the crowd, my smile now dialed up to full-on mom-general mode.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Jim,” — I decided the man fumbling with the dropped snack looked like a Jim — “can you continue mashing these potatoes? And you, Sarah, right? Great. Sarah, could you help set the table?”

They hesitated, unsure whether this was part of some elaborate Thanksgiving tradition or just my thinly veiled way of punishing them.

People exchanging awkward glances | Source: Midjourney

People exchanging awkward glances | Source: Midjourney

“The kitchen is just through here, follow me,” I added, turning to lead the way.

Soon, everyone was busy with their assignments like recruits who knew better than to question their drill sergeant.

Dan returned after about ten minutes, now wearing a paper turkey glued to his shirt, courtesy of Emma’s relentless crafting enthusiasm. Jake trailed after him with a smug look, holding a juice box I was certain he hadn’t asked for.

A boy holding a juice box | Source: Midjourney

A boy holding a juice box | Source: Midjourney

Dan surveyed the scene, his mouth opening in what was likely another attempt at commentary, but I shut it down with a simple glance. My impromptu army was working, and no way was he going to derail it now.

The sound of the potato peeler scraping against tubers joined the clinking of plates and the occasional giggle of guests trying to navigate their tasks.

It was chaos, yes, but it was my chaos.

A confident woman | Source: Midjourney

A confident woman | Source: Midjourney

It wasn’t all smooth sailing. Someone spilled cranberry sauce on my rug, and another coworker accidentally doubled the sugar in the sweet potatoes. But somehow, by sheer force of will (and a little wine), the chaos began to look like progress.

Dinner came together like a miracle. The table groaned under the weight of turkey, stuffing, and all the trimmings, each dish looking more impressive than the last.

I took my seat at the head of the table, raising my glass with a triumphant smile.

A woman making a toast | Source: Midjourney

A woman making a toast | Source: Midjourney

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” I began, my tone warm but pointed. “This wouldn’t have been possible without your help — literally. I hope you enjoyed seeing what Thanksgiving prep looks like in this house. Isn’t teamwork amazing?”

Dan’s boss chuckled. “Dan, you didn’t tell us we’d be working on our day off!”

The table erupted in laughter. Dan gave a sheepish smile, sinking lower into his chair. I allowed myself a moment of smug satisfaction.

A sheepish man at a dinner table | Source: Midjourney

A sheepish man at a dinner table | Source: Midjourney

After dessert, I stood, clapping my hands once more. “Alright, everyone, let’s tackle the clean-up together! Dan, why don’t you lead the dishwashing crew? You’re so good at organizing.”

Dan’s coworkers didn’t even blink. They rose, collecting plates and stacking bowls as if it were second nature.

I watched from the doorway as Dan scrubbed dishes, a streak of whipped cream on his cheek and an expression of utter defeat on his face.

A man washing dishes | Source: Midjourney

A man washing dishes | Source: Midjourney

Jake toddled over, tugging at his pant leg, and Dan crouched down, his voice soft but tired.

“I’m sorry, buddy. Mommy’s the boss, isn’t she?”

You bet your glued-on turkey she is, I thought, smirking as I headed back to the dining room.

Later that night, as the house finally quieted and the kids snored softly in their beds, Dan found me on the couch. He sat down beside me, handing me a mug of tea.

A woman holding a mug of tea | Source: Pexels

A woman holding a mug of tea | Source: Pexels

“Zoe,” he began, running a hand through his hair, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about how much work goes into this. I shouldn’t have surprised you like that.”

I let the silence stretch just long enough for him to squirm. “No, you shouldn’t have,” I said, though my tone was more teasing than angry now.

He gave me a small smile. “You were amazing today.”

I sipped my tea, leaning back onto the couch with a satisfied sigh.

A woman relaxing | Source: Midjourney

A woman relaxing | Source: Midjourney

“Just remember this next time you think about inviting an entire office to Thanksgiving.”

“Next time?” He looked horrified, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Let’s hope there’s no next time,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder.

Thanksgiving was a rollercoaster, but at least it was our rollercoaster, and I was firmly in the driver’s seat.

A confident woman | Source: Midjourney

A confident woman | Source: Midjourney

Here’s another story: My MIL Gloria crossed a line when she strutted into Thanksgiving with a turkey bearing a photo of my face. Her humiliating “joke” in front of the family was the last straw. But little did Gloria know, I had a plan to turn her stunt into the talk of the town — for all the wrong reasons.

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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