When a parent shows up with an attitude of entitlement

Host: The morning light slipped through the high windows of the school auditorium, soft and pale, dust drifting in the beams like tiny, restless souls. The faint hum of conversation rippled through the space — teachers clutching papers, parents checking their phones, the smell of burnt coffee and fresh anxiety hanging in the air.

Jack leaned against a wall near the back, his arms crossed, eyes scanning the room with that familiar steel-gray detachment. His tie was loosened, his posture relaxed, but his jaw — tight. Jeeny sat beside him in a row of folding chairs, her notebook balanced on her lap, her eyes warm but sharp, absorbing everything.

It was parent-teacher conference day. The scene felt like a battlefield disguised as a polite gathering. Somewhere, a child’s laugh echoed from the hallway — the sound of innocence far from the tension simmering here.

Jeeny: “You can almost feel it, can’t you? That… electricity. Everyone pretending to be calm, but the air’s full of nerves.”

Jack: “You call it nerves. I call it entitlement. Half the parents in this room think their kid’s a prodigy. And when they’re told otherwise — they bite.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But Robert Evans once said, ‘When a parent shows up with an attitude of entitlement, understand that under it is a boatload of anxiety.’ Don’t you think that’s true? Entitlement’s just a mask. Fear is what’s real.”

Host: Jack gave a faint, humorless laugh, the kind that came from years of watching human behavior from a safe emotional distance. His eyes flicked toward a woman nearby — perfectly dressed, voice raised at a teacher, defending her child with the fury of someone fighting for her own reflection.

Jack: “Fear, huh? That woman looks like she’s auditioning for Gladiator. You think it’s fear making her act like that? No. It’s pride. The fear’s gone long before they start yelling.”

Jeeny: “Pride is fear, Jack. It’s fear in a costume. When people feel powerless, they inflate themselves. Parents aren’t angry because they think their child’s better — they’re angry because they’re terrified their child might not be good enough. And by extension… that they’re not.”

Host: Jack said nothing for a moment. The faint sound of papers shuffling and distant chatter filled the silence between them. His eyes traced the polished floor, catching the reflection of fluorescent lights.

Jack: “You talk like everyone’s a victim. But at some point, people have to take responsibility for their behavior. Anxiety doesn’t give you a free pass to be cruel.”

Jeeny: “Of course not. But understanding doesn’t excuse — it explains. You can’t help a drowning person by judging their flailing.”

Jack: “You can’t help them if they’re dragging others under, either.”

Host: The tension between them began to rise, invisible but sharp, like the static before a storm. Outside, a car horn blared faintly; inside, the hum of voices swelled and ebbed, the rhythm of human impatience.

Jeeny: “You’re missing the point, Jack. It’s not about excusing bad behavior — it’s about seeing through it. When a parent storms in demanding special treatment, what they’re really saying is, ‘I’m scared I’ve failed.’ Every parent carries that fear — the weight of not being enough. You can’t fight that with logic alone.”

Jack: “So what? We just let people off the hook because they’re ‘scared’? Come on, Jeeny. That’s like saying every rude person in customer service deserves a hug. The world doesn’t work that way.”

Jeeny: “No, but people do. You always talk about logic like it’s the cure for everything, but logic doesn’t comfort a heart that’s panicking. You can’t reason with fear. You can only recognize it.”

Host: Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice softened, though his words were still edged with skepticism.

Jack: “You sound like one of those parenting podcasts. But fine — let’s take your theory. What about the parents who sue teachers for giving their kid a B? Or the ones who threaten schools because their child didn’t make the soccer team? You think they’re just scared too?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Scared of being irrelevant. Scared of being forgotten. Scared that the world is moving faster than they can protect their children from. That kind of fear turns into obsession. You remember that case in the States — the ‘Varsity Blues’ scandal? Parents paying hundreds of thousands to get their kids into universities. That wasn’t greed. That was desperation — the desperate need to feel safe through their children’s success.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, heavy and resonant. Jack’s expression shifted — something flickered behind the mask, something unspoken. He didn’t look at her.

Jack: “Yeah… maybe. But that fear still ruins people, Jeeny. Teachers burn out. Kids grow up suffocated by expectations. Fear might be the cause, but that doesn’t make the damage any less real.”

Jeeny: “No. But it makes healing possible. You can’t change what you don’t understand.”

Host: The room began to empty slowly. Parents filtered out, their faces a blend of relief and worry, success and shame. The echo of footsteps against tile filled the silence left behind. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, cold and steady.

Jack watched a father leave — tall, well-dressed, clutching his son’s report card like a verdict. The boy trailed behind, small, quiet, staring at the floor.

Jack: “You know, when I was that kid… my old man used to show up at every parent meeting. Always smiling, shaking hands, acting proud. But the second we got home, it was different. Every smile he’d given out there turned into silence. He didn’t yell. Just… disappointment. That was worse.”

Jeeny: (gently) “He was scared too, Jack.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Scared? Of what? He had everything figured out.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what he was scared of — not having it figured out. Parents aren’t gods, Jack. They’re just people who love someone so much it terrifies them.”

Host: The light from the window had turned gold now, the late afternoon sun sneaking past the blinds. Dust motes shimmered in the amber glow. The room felt quieter — not empty, but contemplative.

Jack exhaled, long and low, his shoulders finally relaxing.

Jack: “So all this — the yelling, the bragging, the defensiveness — it’s just fear wearing pride like armor?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And underneath it all, a single truth: ‘Am I doing enough? Am I enough?’ That’s the question every parent hides, even the loudest ones.”

Jack: “And the teachers?”

Jeeny: “They hide the same question.”

Host: Jack chuckled quietly, shaking his head. A rare smile touched his face — small, but real.

Jack: “So everyone’s scared, and everyone’s pretending not to be. What a beautiful mess.”

Jeeny: “That’s humanity. Fear pretending to be certainty. Love disguised as anger. Entitlement masking anxiety.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is poetic. Pain always is, once you stop fighting it.”

Host: The last echo of footsteps faded. Only the two of them remained, sitting among the empty chairs. Outside, the sound of children laughing in the playground floated through the open door — a strange, fragile reminder that all of this, all the striving and worrying, was born from love.

Jack leaned back, his eyes softening, the hard lines of skepticism easing.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe under every demand, every complaint, there’s just someone who’s afraid they’re not doing right by the ones they love.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s enough reason to meet them with patience — even when they don’t deserve it.”

Host: The light dimmed. The sun dipped behind the buildings, leaving the room bathed in the tender blue of approaching evening. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, the air still warm with the aftertaste of truth.

In that quiet, something shifted — not in words, but in the space between them. Understanding, like a soft thread, connecting two imperfect hearts.

And as the day faded, Robert Evans’ words lingered in the stillness:
“When a parent shows up with an attitude of entitlement, understand that under it is a boatload of anxiety.”

Host: The camera lingered on their faces — two souls caught between logic and empathy — before fading slowly to black, leaving behind only the faint sound of laughter and the unspoken hum of compassion beneath fear.