Some people act like the world owes them everything — from special treatment to money that isn’t theirs. They push boundaries, demand what they haven’t earned, and expect everyone else to accept it. But entitlement always meets its match. These four stories prove karma has a way of striking back.
I sat clutching a photo of Edith, my late wife, and our daughters. “I miss you, Ed,” I whispered. My mother urged me to move on, even suggesting Gabriela, a coworker. A year later, Gaby was my wife, and though life wasn’t the same, it felt steady.
But one evening, she cornered me in the kitchen. “Charlie, we need to talk about the girls’ trust fund,” she said sweetly. My stomach dropped. Edith had left that money for our daughters’ future.
Gaby’s tone hardened: “What about my girls? Don’t they deserve the same?”
I refused. “That fund is Edith’s legacy. It’s not ours to touch.”
Her anger boiled over, but the next morning I made a loud call to my financial advisor — creating a new account for her daughters funded by our joint income. Edith’s money stayed untouched.
The weeks that followed were tense, filled with guilt trips and cold silences. But I stood firm. My daughters’ future and Edith’s memory were non-negotiable. Gaby had revealed her true colors, and I had shown her entitlement had limits.
Peter’s room was still full of his books, sketches, and medals. He’d been accepted to Yale before a drunk driver stole him from me. His college fund sat untouched — until Susan, my ex-wife, came knocking.
She left Peter when he was 12, but now she wanted his money for her stepson Ryan. “It’s just sitting there,” she argued. “Ryan could benefit.”
At a coffee shop, she and her husband Jerry tried to guilt me. “College is expensive. Why waste it?”
I snapped. “That money was for Peter. You abandoned him. You don’t deserve a cent.”
I walked out, later deciding to honor Peter in my own way. I used the fund to travel to Belgium — a trip we had dreamed of together. As I stood by the canal, holding his photo, I whispered, “We made it.” His legacy remained his, not theirs.
Mom died of breast cancer when I was ten, leaving me a trust fund for my future. Dad remarried Marianne, who had a daughter, Emily. Slowly, Dad drained the fund — fixing appliances, buying Emily gifts, even covering her new BMW.
By college, I discovered thousands missing. Grandma urged me to fight back. When Dad chose Emily’s pageant over my graduation, I’d had enough.
I confronted him with account statements. “This was Mom’s money for me. Pay it back.”
He laughed bitterly until I threatened to sue. For the first time, he looked afraid. Within a month, the money was restored. I moved in with my grandparents, enrolled in grad school, and whispered to Mom’s photo: “I kept my promise. I didn’t let them dim my light.”
Jason had been thrown out by his parents at 17, and my family took him in. We built a life together until bone cancer claimed him.
Barely a month after his funeral, his estranged parents appeared, demanding the keys to his house. They had abandoned him, yet now they wanted control.
I agreed — but only if they honored Jason’s memory the way he deserved. Entitlement had brought them to my door, but respect was the price they’d have to pay.
