I am working as a waiter at a restaurant when I see a mother dealing with her twin boys, both about four years old. She is trying to calm them down, but they both seem to be fighting over their dessert: slices of chocolate cake.

Twin #1: “His slice is bigger than mine!”

[Twin #1] sticks his tongue out smugly.

Mother: “They both look the same to me. If they’re different, it’s by the teensiest tiniest amount!”

Twin #1: “It’s not fair! They should be the same size!”

I pass by again a few minutes later, and now both boys are crying because of a minor altercation, and the poor mother looks like she’s at the end of her tether. I also notice that the cake slices have barely been touched because of all this. I approach the mother.

Me: “Ma’am, may I suggest something? I think I can help your boys get a dessert that they’ll both be happy with.”

Mother: “You obviously haven’t met my boys! But sure, if you think you can help.”

I return with a double-sized single slice of chocolate cake. The boys are eyeing it up big time.

Me: “Hi, boys. This is a cake slice big enough for two growing boys like yourselves! You can both share this, but on one condition.”

I present a plastic butter knife, only sharp enough for slicing cake. I show the knife to the mother, who nods with her approval.

Me: “One of you cuts, and the other one chooses their slice first.”

The boys do a quick game of rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to cut the cake. The twin who gets it then starts dithering over the cake trying to make sure it’s a millimeter-perfect cut down the middle; God forbid one twin gets one grain of cake more than the other.

I remove the barely-touched slices of cake (a small price to pay for this result) and come by a few minutes later. The boys are solemnly silent, still trying to gauge the perfect slice point.

I speak to the mother, who seems to be enjoying her phone for the first time in a while.

Me: “Another coffee?”

Mother: “Yes, please!”

The boys did eventually slice the cake without argument… ten minutes later.

I am a teenager trying to get my math homework done with the “help” of my six-year-old brother.

Brother: “What’s that, [My Name]? How do you do this? Why doesn’t this look like my homework?”

Me: *Frustrated* “Because this is letter math, like big kids do. You want to try it?”

Brother: “Yeah!”

I grab a piece of notebook paper and write down half a dozen basic algebra problems, along the lines of x + 4 = 7.

Me: “Here. Give it a try and let me know how far you get.”

I am thinking this will keep him quiet and out of my hair. Five minutes later:

Brother: “All done! That was fun! Can I have more, please?”

I take the paper and discover that he has solved every problem correctly. After writing down half a dozen more, I go find my mom.

Me: “I think we might need to get [Brother] enrichment in math.”

You could say my sister is sensitive, but I say she’s overdramatic. It snowed several inches over the last few days and kept falling. My sister calls to ask if I can drive her to work because she is afraid of wrecking. As I start backing out of her driveway, my backup camera alerts me that a car is coming down the road. She gasps and grabs my elbow, pulling slightly on my arm. 

Sister: “Be careful!”

Me: “I am being careful, and please don’t touch me. I need to concentrate.”

Sister: “I’m just saying you could have hit him.”

Me: “I am more likely to hit someone if you pull on my arm again.”

It’s a slow, annoying drive with her gasping at every little thing and reaching out to grab me. I tell her every time to keep her hands to herself and just be quiet so I can concentrate.

At one red light, I brake early in anticipation of my car sliding a few feet as it has done every year at this intersection. It does, and she screams, digging her fingers into my thigh so hard it pushes my leg down. Luckily, I was already on the brake and the car had stopped.

Sister: “Oh, my God, we could have died!”

Me: “We are fine.”

I grab her wrist and pull her hand off my leg, putting it back in her lap.

Me: “Sit on your hands or something.”

Sister: “Seriously, we could have been T-boned.”

Me: “Just let me drive.”

We are coming up to a light where I have the green to go straight, but a car coming from the right does not yield to the right-on-red rule.

Sister: “OH, MY GOD! STOP!”

[Sister] screams, grabs my wrist and forearm, and pulls my arm toward her, causing me to pull the steering wheel. We start swerving while I try to get her off my arm and not wreck. The car stops, thankfully without hitting anything. [Sister] is crying as I pull over to the side of the road.

Sister: “What an a**hole! Who drives like that?! He could have run right into us!”

Me: “You need to get your s*** together or I’m kicking you out right here.”

Sister: “Why?”

Me: “We almost wrecked because you can’t keep your hands to yourself!”

Sister: “I just got scared we would get hit.”

Me: “If you touch me or scream or pull any more of this dramatic bulls*** one more time, I will drag you out of this car by your f****** hair and you can find your own way. Is that understood?”

Sister: “Okay.”

I got her to work only to find out that the store had closed because of the weather. She had a voicemail on her phone, which she hadn’t listened to because she was worried about me wrecking. I told her next time she should just call out because I would not be driving her anymore.

To put it bluntly, my sister and I are both fat. We don’t have physical or mental issues, and there’s no medical reason whatsoever that we can’t not be fat. We’re just a result of lifestyle choices — too much food and not enough exercise.

One day, I decide to do something about it, and I start eating healthier — much less sugar and carbs, and a lot of veggies! — and exercising five times a week.

I allow myself one cheat day a month, and today is the day! I go to my favorite restaurant, as I am not going to waste my cheat day on food I don’t absolutely love. My sister discovers that I am going, so she decides to tag along.

Like I said, my sister (like myself) has no mental issues, but she has been a bit resistant to my lifestyle change.

Waiter: “Can I get you ladies anything to drink?”

Sister: *Not skipping a beat* “She’ll just have the water! She’s trying to lose all her fat!”

Me: “I will have a diet soda, thanks.”

Sister: “And she’ll have the salad for her mains.”

Me: “I will have the [signature burger] and fries, please.”

Sister: “Oh, but you’ve been doing so well. Are you ready to give in?”

Me: “It’s my cheat day; that’s why I’m here. I’m going to enjoy this meal and then go back to my diet tomorrow.”

Sister: “You say that now, but tomorrow, you’ll be back to the same as always.”

Waiter: *Sensing the tension* “I’ll give you ladies a few more minutes.”

Sister: “No, you stay right there! My oh-so-righteous sister will have the water and salad and nothing else!”

Waiter: “It’s standard to bring out what the customer specifically requests, ma’am.”

Sister: “If you bring her out that burger and fries, you will not be getting a tip!”

Me: “If you bring out my burger and fries, I will double my usual tip. However, I’d like to request another table and dine alone, if that’s possible?”

Sister: “[My Name]!”

She continued to throw passive-aggressive comments at me, and when I moved tables, she stormed out. I felt so sorry for that waiter that I stayed true to my promise and tipped him double my usual.

Three months later, my regime is going great, and my sister still mocks me daily, saying I will likely be giving up tomorrow. She has no idea that her attitude is actually spurring me on!

CONTENT WARNING: Fatal Car Accident

My wife and I are raising my ten-year-old son, my eight-year-old niece, and my seven-year-old daughter. We adopted my niece more than a year ago. My sister was a single mother, and my niece, sister, and her boyfriend were in a car accident caused by a drunk driver. My sister and her boyfriend both died.

My niece survived but was paralyzed from her lower back down, and she had to come to terms with her mom’s death, adjust to living in our family, and learn how to live her new life in a wheelchair.

At first, we were worried about how our kids would react to their cousin living with us. She wasn’t close to us before; the reason we were adopting her was that she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Our kids had met her a few times before. Due to the hospital’s health crisis regulations at the time, the only visitors allowed in the hospital she was staying at were adults, and they really preferred that those adults were my wife and me. We tried to have the kids talk on Zoom, but they never really connected. My son in particular can be very resistant to any changes at home and was pretty upset already about the ways we were changing our house to make it more accessible.

We brought my niece home after a few months in the hospital, and as expected, my son wasn’t incredibly happy about this. He didn’t say anything to her face about it, but she could tell he wasn’t happy about her being there.

The next morning, I woke up at seven, and as I went into the kitchen to start making breakfast, I saw my niece’s wheelchair… but no niece in it. I heard strange noises coming from the living room, and I walked in to see my son with my niece sitting on his shoulders, my niece being very small for her age. They were both giggling and laughing and searching for something on the mantle above the fireplace.

I got my niece back into her wheelchair and asked what happened. All that they would tell me was that my niece’s glasses had somehow ended up on the mantel. My son was too short to see it from where he was standing, and my niece was too nearsighted to find her glasses without wearing them, so they were just doing their best to work together to find the glasses.

I was upset that my son had just picked her up and put her on his shoulders, and we had a long talk about safety, but I’m also incredibly relieved; it’s been six months, and my son, niece, and daughter are best friends. I asked my son what changed, and he just said that it was impossible to stay mad at his cousin when she’s such an amazing person.

Both of my kids are very patient and supportive of my niece’s trauma, anxiety, and physical disability, and my niece is incredibly loving and grateful in return.