Entitled Couple Demanded I Don’t Order Dessert—And That Wasn’t Even the Worst Part #7

It only took one perfect spoonful of mango gelato, eaten barefoot on volcanic sand, to remind me that I belonged to myself.

That was this trip in a nutshell.

The first few months of the year had felt like someone had thrown gas onto a dumpster fire. When things finally settled down, I’d booked a solo vacation in Tenerife.

I’d spent my first day wandering coastal trails, ducking into sleepy seaside cafés, and buying bracelets from a woman who kissed my hand when I tipped her too much.

I’d forgotten what it felt like to not rush, to take up space without checking in with anyone.

Now, I was on my balcony with the Atlantic breeze in my hair, watching the sky melt into streaks of soft amber and rose gold.

It was the kind of view that makes deadlines and group chats vanish.

I lifted my glass of sparkling water (tomorrow’s an early hike) and smiled.

My stomach let out a little grumble then, and I checked the time.

If I took a slow walk downstairs, I’d arrive just as they started serving dinner.

I’d chosen this all-inclusive resort specifically because of the club-style dining: all the tables sat eight people, and everyone got seated together.

Apparently, it encouraged conversation and a sense of community. The real perk for me was that I didn’t have to hunt around for eateries or try to decipher menus in European Spanish using the broken classroom version that had never helped me much in the real world.

As predicted, the dining room was mostly empty when I arrived.

The hostess led me to a table, and the waiter, a friendly guy named Miguel, arrived soon afterward to take my order: grilled fish and roasted vegetables, nothing too fancy. But when he asked about dessert, my eyes lit up.

“The tiramisu,” I said without hesitation.

The grilled fish was divine, and the roasted vegetables had just the right amount of paprika and garlic.

But I was mainly looking forward to my dessert. There’s nothing better after finishing a delicious dinner than having someone bring you something sweet and indulgent. It’s pure bliss.

But just as Miguel set down that gorgeous portion of tiramisu, complete with mint leaf garnish and a fine dusting of cocoa powder, the hostess appeared with new tablemates.

A family of five squeezed into the remaining chairs. Mom, Dad, and three kids, all wearing matching navy polo shirts like they’d stepped out of a catalog.

The parents looked to be in their late 30s, both incredibly fit with those perpetual smiles that seemed a little too bright.

The kids were cute, probably between six and 12, chattering excitedly about the pool and tomorrow’s activities.

“Hello there,” the woman said, her smile faltering the second she noticed my dessert. “I’m Sarah, and this is my husband, Mark.”

I nodded politely. “I’m Ava. Nice to meet you.”

But Sarah’s expression had completely changed. She was staring at my dessert like it had personally offended her.

“We do not wish to expose our children to women indulging in sweets like that,” she announced, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “It promotes bad habits and poor values.” She pointed at my dessert like it might bite her. “You’ll need to get rid of that.”

I blinked, my fork suspended mid-air. Did she just…? No. No way.

“You should ask the host to seat you at a different table, then,” I replied, keeping my voice measured but firm. “Because I’m going to enjoy my dessert.”

Sarah and Mark exchanged one of those looks that married couples perfect over the years. The kind that says, “Can you believe this person?”

That’s when the commentary started.

It was just loud enough for me to hear but quiet enough that they could pretend they weren’t talking about me.

“Bet that’s not her first slice today,” Mark muttered.

“No wonder she’s alone,” Sarah replied with a smirk.

Mark nodded sagely.

“I can’t believe people willingly poison themselves with that junk,” Sarah continued, “and all because they have no self-control when it comes to sweets.”

My cheeks burned, but I wasn’t about to let them win.

I took another bite of my tiramisu, savoring every single morsel while they continued their passive-aggressive performance.

After a few more minutes of her barbed comments and his quiet nods, I excused myself to get a glass of water from the self-serve bar.

Maybe some distance would help me ignore their judgment.

But when I returned to the table, my dessert was gone.

Think of the Children!

When that sugar addict left the table, abandoning her dessert like some half-finished act of self-sabotage, my stomach churned.

Just looking at that tiramisu made me want to hurl.

I turned to Mark. “I really don’t want the kids exposed to that. We can’t just sit here and let them think that’s normal.”

He barely glanced up. “She doesn’t care, honey. The kids will just have to deal with it.”

That was always his response: “just” this, “just” that.

As if we hadn’t agreed years ago that we’d raise our children with structure, discipline, and awareness while keeping them far from temptation.

Now this woman in a crumpled sundress was undermining all of that. What kind of person sits at a communal table, gorging themself like it’s their job, and then still has the nerve to look smug about it?

And for Mark to be so apathetic about it… as though letting our children see a grown woman scarf down tiramisu without shame was harmless.

Our youngest stared at the tiramisu like it was some mythical treasure. I could already see the shift in his eyes: desire… craving.

Just that fast, the example had been set.

All the self-destructive, self-indulgent behaviors kids see are influencing them, and normalizing bad habits, and I won’t stand for it.

I flagged down the waiter (Miguel, his name tag said) and smiled politely.

“Hi there. Just a quick note. That woman’s actually a friend of ours. She, um… has a health condition. She forgets sometimes and orders sweets, but they’re really not safe for her.”

Miguel’s brow knit. “Oh — I didn’t know.”

“Of course not,” I said. “It’s delicate. But it would be best to quietly take it away. For her own good.”

He nodded. I could see the relief in his posture, like I’d saved him from liability or something. Servers love it when you give them a reason to act. A purpose.

He whisked the tiramisu away before she even returned.

I sat back in my chair, my heart rate finally slowing now that the situation had been dealt with.

I had done the right thing. It wasn’t just about the sugar; it was about discipline and what my children internalize from the world around them.

I won’t apologize for protecting them.

When she returned to the table with a glass of water and saw the empty space where her disgusting tiramisu had been, there was a flicker in her expression. A moment of confusion. Then realization.

Then fury.

I kept my eyes on my plate, biting into my grilled chicken. She might not like it, but I’d just saved her from herself.

She called Miguel over. They exchanged words a few steps away from the table while we kept eating.

Her tone sharpened; his face fell. I caught a phrase: “health issue? I don’t have a health issue.”

Miguel looked like he’d swallowed a fly.

Mark leaned over. “Did you hear that?”

“She’s making a scene,” I said under my breath. “It’s fine. Part of the burden of being right is having the courage to face the backlash of ignorant and ungrateful people.”

“No, she’s asking for another dessert.”

I blinked. “After being told it’s bad for her?”

“I don’t think she’s going to drop this, Sarah.”

The waiter disappeared into the kitchen.

Ava returned to the table and sat back down. Her gaze flicked toward me, but I looked right past her.

She wouldn’t dare to bring another plate of sugary poison to my table, would she?

My heart rate picked up again. All I wanted was to prevent my children from being exposed to gluttony and poor role models. That’s what good mothers do.

I stole a glance at her across the table. If she really wanted a fight, then…

My thoughts broke off as Miguel emerged from the kitchen, pushing a cart. My jaw dropped when I saw what was on it.

Not just a plate with a new portion of tiramisu, but a three-layer chocolate cake coated in glossy ganache and showered in shavings and whipped cream. A sparkler candle hissed on top like it was mocking me.

My daughter clapped. The boys stared, slack-jawed.

The cart stopped in front of Ava.

Miguel placed the whole cake on the table in front of her. She picked up the cake server like it was a dagger she’d been waiting to unsheathe.

“What’s wrong? I thought we were all friends,” she said, grinning straight through me.

She cut herself a giant slice and took a bite with intent. She moaned. Loudly.

“Mmm. Definitely worth the sugar coma.”

The kids giggled.

Mark let out a breath. “This is ridiculous.”

“She’s deliberately undermining us,” I hissed.

“Would you each like a slice?” she asked sweetly. “What about your kids? They seem interested.”

My daughter turned toward me, practically bouncing. “Can we, Mom? Please?”

I could feel the room watching.

“Absolutely not,” I snapped, standing so fast my chair groaned across the tile. “Come on, kids. We’re leaving.”

I held my head high as we walked out of that dining room, heart pounding, eyes stinging.

Let her wallow in sugar and smugness.

I’ll take discipline. I’ll take control. I’ll take the high road — even if no one thanks me for it.

She can keep her cake.

I’ll keep my standards.

Here’s another story: On our 10th anniversary, I believed my husband’s promise to “handle dinner.” Dressed up and waiting for a romantic surprise, I was stunned when a takeout delivery arrived — for him. He forgot I was even home, so I decided to go somewhere else!