Credit: Wikimedia Commons
There’s a strange phenomenon when you’re a kid—you assume adults have it all figured out. They’re older, they’re supposed to be wiser, and surely they know what’s best, right? Wrong. Turns out, a lot of adults are just grown-up versions of those kids who wouldn’t share crayons. From bizarre grudges to downright petty punishments, these childhood memories prove that sometimes, the people in charge shouldn’t be.
When I was six, I was at an Easter egg hunt, thrilled as I spotted a chocolate egg glinting among the rocks. Just as I reached out, an adult stomped on my hand, blocking me from grabbing it so his kid could “find” it.
He didn’t just steal the egg—he crushed my excitement and my hand. Talk about taking the Easter spirit and turning it into pure villainy. Who even does that to a child?
That moment stuck with me. To this day, Easter is less about chocolate and more about the memory of one man’s over-the-top pettiness.
In fifth grade, I couldn’t afford fancy book covers, so I skipped covering my math book entirely. My teacher’s response? Take it away, leaving me unable to follow along in class or do homework.
My mom wasn’t having it. She stormed into the school, demanding justice like a warrior queen. Her argument? My education wasn’t something to mess with, paper bag or not. The teacher didn’t know what hit her.
Looking back, it wasn’t about the cover—it was about control. Lesson learned: never underestimate a parent ready to fight for their kid’s rights.
When I transferred to a new sixth-grade class, I was thrilled to learn we’d be reading The Hobbit. I mentioned I’d already read it, only for the teacher to call me a liar in front of everyone.
She spent the year nitpicking and letting her favorite students bully me. No matter how well I did on assignments, I was never good enough. It felt like I was living in Mordor, not middle school.
Decades later, her nastiness still lingers in my mind. Teachers like her don’t just fail as educators—they leave scars that outlast even the longest school years.
One night, I scooped the last bowl of ice cream, only for my dad to take it from me. His reasoning? I hadn’t offered him any first. I was crushed.
The betrayal stung so deeply that, even now, I find myself sneaking ice cream in secret, just to avoid someone stealing it. No kid should have to grow up with snack-related trust issues.
It’s not about the ice cream anymore—it’s about the principle. That moment turned what should’ve been a sweet treat into a bitter memory of unnecessary cruelty.
On my mom’s third wedding day, I retreated to my room to cry, trying not to disrupt her happiness. Instead of compassion, she stopped everything to accuse me of being selfish and ruining her day.
The irony? I hid my feelings to avoid upsetting her, but it still backfired. It felt like there was no way to win, no matter how hard I tried.
Time heals, though. Therapy mended our relationship, and I’ve since forgiven her. Still, that memory remains a lesson in how not to handle someone else’s pain.
In ninth grade, I broke two fingers on my dominant hand and couldn’t write. My teacher’s brilliant idea? Force me to scribble my answers with my non-dominant left hand.
Unsurprisingly, my handwriting was a mess, but instead of showing empathy, she marked the test wrong because she couldn’t read it. Physical pain and academic humiliation in one fell swoop.
Even now, I can’t forget that experience. The real test wasn’t in the classroom—it was enduring a teacher who clearly flunked the empathy part of her education degree.
When I was 16, I worked at a gas station, doing glamorous tasks like sweeping cigarette butts. One day, a middle-aged man strutted up to me and boasted he made more in a week than I did in a year.
I just rolled my eyes internally and thought, “Well, duh, I’m in high school.” Why he felt the need to flex on a kid will forever remain one of life’s dumbest mysteries.
That moment taught me some adults really can’t resist petty competition, even with teenagers. All he proved was how much of a jerk he could be.
My name is Abby. Just Abby. But in sixth grade, my teacher decided it had to be Abigail. When I didn’t respond to this imaginary name, she sent me to the principal’s office.
Thankfully, the principal checked my records, confirmed I was indeed Abby and sent me back to class. My teacher, however, held a grudge and never called on me again.
It’s amazing how something as simple as a name can trip people up. I wish she’d trusted me to know my own identity—all four letters of it.
In third or fourth grade, I felt awful with what turned out to be strep throat. I asked my substitute teacher if I could go to the nurse, but she refused, saying I didn’t “look sick enough.”
Spoiler: strep doesn’t come with a visual warning sign. While I sat in misery, she probably patted herself on the back for her tough love approach. Thanks for nothing.
It still baffles me how some adults think intuition trumps actual care. Stick to math problems, lady, and leave healthcare decisions to the professionals.
In fourth grade, I got a zero on a history project because my teacher, Ms. Easton, claimed I plagiarized. My crime? Forgetting a single period in my citation.
Two decades later, I still remember the sting of being punished for something so trivial. I had done everything right—except for one tiny formatting detail—but she made it a capital offense.
The lesson should have been about fairness and understanding, not pettiness over punctuation. Sorry, Ms. Easton, you flunked that teachable moment.
In elementary school, I used to chat with the lunch lady every day. But one day, I didn’t say hi, and she stormed over to my lunch table.
She called me fake, phony, and a bunch of other things before cutting me off completely. I was just a kid and had no clue what I did wrong.
To this day, I still don’t understand why she reacted that way. I mean, come on—it was one missed “hi.” Talk about holding a grudge.
In kindergarten, I was sick and missed a day of school. When I returned, my teacher publicly accused me of lying and threatened to expel me in front of the entire class.
Apparently, she wanted to win some attendance award and decided bullying a five-year-old was the way to go. I cried right there, too overwhelmed to defend myself.
Even now, I’m salty about it. How did she get away with traumatizing a kid over something so trivial? She should’ve gotten a timeout instead of an award.
At a sleepover in middle school, my friend’s strict parents let us watch Zenon: Girl of the 21st Century. I laughed at a funny part, and they scolded me for being too loud.
Not long after, I choked on water and coughed. That was apparently the last straw—they called my parents after 11 p.m. to pick me up for “misbehaving.”
My parents never let me stay there again. Even now, almost 20 years later, they’re still annoyed about being woken up over something so ridiculous.
One time, I did a chore my dad asked for, and when my mom complimented the work, he took full credit right in front of me. I couldn’t believe it.
I told my mom the truth, and he called me a “traitor” for not going along with his lie. I was stunned that he’d get so mad over something so minor.
That moment stuck with me. I wasn’t trying to start drama, but it taught me how fragile some egos can be—even over chores.
During a math test review, I wrote notes on my returned test to help me understand my mistakes. My teacher suddenly ripped the paper from me and started screaming.
She accused me of cheating, despite the test already being graded. I tried explaining, but I was so humiliated and shocked that I barely got the words out.
Even now, I don’t understand what set her off. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It’s one of those childhood moments that left a permanent mark.
In preschool, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shake hands before or after getting a prize on stage. As I hesitated, an adult snatched the prize out of my reach.
The whole hall of adults burst into laughter as I burst into tears and was led offstage. To top it off, my parent scolded me for embarrassing her.
Later, my teacher passed the prize to my parent, but the damage was done. That local celebrity? Forever linked in my mind to one of my earliest cringe-worthy moments.
My aunt always seemed distant, but when I was 14, she pulled me aside to explain why. Apparently, she’d always held a grudge against me because of my name.
She confessed she’d wanted to name her first daughter the same name, but my parents unknowingly used it first. She told me she was “just about” ready to forgive me for it.
I was baffled. How could I be blamed for this? Later, it didn’t seem as shocking compared to all the other unkind things she did to her own family.
One of my uncles was feuding with my mom, and to spite her, he took it out on me. Every time he greeted us, he would praise my sister and then barely acknowledge me.
I idolized him before this, so his coldness left me heartbroken. I cried for hours, convinced I wasn’t special or pretty like my sister. It crushed my self-esteem.
His petty revenge didn’t just hurt my mom—it left me scarred for years. To this day, I haven’t forgiven him for the way he made me feel.
In sixth grade, I got in trouble for reading during homeroom, even though it was a period to quietly work. I always finished my homework the night before, so I thought it was fine.
My teacher didn’t agree. One day, she yelled at me for reading, demanded proof that my homework was done, then confiscated my book and sent me to the principal for being “disrespectful.”
I’m still salty about it. How could reading quietly be so offensive? Teachers like her are why so many people grow up hating school—and books.
When I was six, I wrote a heartfelt letter to my grandma, who had passed away on Christmas Day. I slipped it into her casket at the funeral, hoping it could stay with her.
But my aunt took it out and handed it back to me, saying I wasn’t allowed to do that. I was devastated—this was my way of saying goodbye.
To this day, I can’t understand why she felt the need to deny me that simple, personal gesture. It’s one of those childhood moments that stays with you forever.
In fourth grade, my teacher gave us some questions before lunch, expecting perfect answers afterward. When one classmate got some wrong, the punishment was outrageous.
She made him walk to every desk and take a slap from each student. We were just kids, confused and horrified, yet she thought this was acceptable discipline.
Looking back, I wish I could go back in time and call out her cruelty. That kind of behavior has no place in a classroom—or anywhere, really.
As a kid, my mom was best friends with a neighbor whose son was my age. Naturally, we were pushed to be friends, but his mom was awful to me.
When my mom wasn’t around, she’d yell at me over nothing or blame me for things her son and I both did. I couldn’t understand why she targeted me.
Years later, I learned she was jealous because I did better in school than her son. Even now, as an adult, I keep my distance despite her sudden kindness.
When I was about 7 or 8, I lived in a community where most people shared the same religion, but I didn’t. One day, the difference hit me hard.
While playing outside, a parent announced a birthday party for everyone—except me. She made it clear I wasn’t invited because I didn’t go to their church.
It’s a memory that still stings. At that age, it was impossible to understand why adults could be so mean over something I couldn’t control.
In art class, I finished a clay project and started poking holes in leftover clay. My teacher, clearly in a bad mood, asked if I wanted to go to the principal’s office.
I was confused but agreed, saying I’d gladly explain what I’d done wrong. She realized how ridiculous she sounded and dropped the whole thing.
I didn’t go to the principal’s office that day, but the absurdity of her overreaction still makes me shake my head.
At 12, I decided to start running around my neighborhood at dusk, hoping to avoid stares as the “fat kid.” By my second or third run, something terrifying happened.
A man walking his dog unleashed it and sicced it on me, laughing as he called it back just before it reached me. I was shaken and never ran again—for years.
Eventually, I regained my confidence and took up running later in life, even completing a half-marathon. But that experience left a mark I’ll never forget.
When I was seven, one of my dad’s drunk friends thought it would be funny to smash my face into a bowl of whipped cream. The “joke”? “Smells funny, doesn’t it?”
It wasn’t so funny when the ceramic bowl broke and left shards in my nose, along with a broken nose to boot. Some joke, huh?
That memory still makes me angry. The audacity to call it humor while causing a child pain is something I’ll never understand—or forgive.
In Cub Scouts, I worked hard on my Pinewood Derby car with my dad’s help. After winning the first three rounds, I was excited about the final race.
Then one of the other dads “accidentally” dropped my car, breaking the wheels. I’m convinced it wasn’t an accident—he just wanted his kid to win.
Even 30 years later, I’m still bitter about it. Adults who cheat kids out of their hard work are the worst kind of petty.
When I was about eight, I went to a baseball game with my family. A player spotted me and tossed me a ball—until some college-aged guy reached over and snatched it.
I turned around to see him and his friends laughing and celebrating like they’d won a trophy. Meanwhile, I was left empty-handed and heartbroken.
Nearly two decades later, it still stings. Adults who take joy in stealing a kid’s moment should be benched permanently.
Once, while studying, I listened to classical music on my phone. My teacher caught me and confiscated the phone—for an entire week.
It wasn’t like I was blasting party music. I was studying! The punishment felt more like theft than discipline and left me completely frustrated.
Even now, it bothers me. How is listening to classical music while being productive worth such an over-the-top response?
In fifth grade, my handwriting was terrible—always had been, no matter how much I practiced. My Social Studies teacher seemed to take joy in making it worse.
She’d hold up my notebook in front of the class, mocking my handwriting and encouraging everyone else to laugh. It was humiliating every single time.
That experience stuck with me. Even now, I avoid handwriting anything for others to see. The scars of her cruelty haven’t faded.
When I was about nine or ten, I found $16 on the sidewalk—a ten, a five, and a single. Being the overly honest kid I was, I picked it up and looked around to see if anyone had lost it.
A lady in a weird sweater vest came up, and when I told her I’d found the money, she said, “Let me see it.” Trusting her as an adult, I handed it over.
She handed me back the single, made a “shhh” gesture, and walked off with the rest. I never saw her again. Even now, I can’t believe I fell for it.
When I left a hanger on the dryer as a kid, I got grounded. Then, for reading while grounded, the punishment got extended. Later, for sleeping instead of reading, it was extended again.
No matter what I did, it seemed like there was always another reason to add to my sentence. I felt like I couldn’t win no matter how hard I tried.
Years later, I still get annoyed just thinking about it. What was I supposed to do—sit perfectly still and stare at the wall?
At ten years old, my aunt told me to stop eating so much, or I’d “get fat like my parents and sister.” It was the first time I ever wanted to punch someone.
The kicker? She was already 100 pounds heavier than either of my parents and has since gained another 200, while my parents both lost significant weight.
That comment didn’t just hurt—it left a lasting impression. Karma may have done its job, but it doesn’t erase the sting of her words.
For my high school graduation, my aunt offered me one of my late grandfather’s rings. Since I’m not into jewelry, I politely declined and thought that was the end of it.
At a family dinner later, she handed me the ring anyway. Before I could thank her, my other aunt exploded, screaming about how she wanted that specific ring. The whole thing felt like a setup.
I was mortified, especially since I had friends over who witnessed the scene. Days later, my angry aunt apologized, but the memory still makes me cringe.
At five, my swimming teacher promised me a candy bar if I jumped off the diving board, even though I couldn’t swim. I jumped, but when I asked for my reward, they claimed they’d forgotten—while eating a candy bar in the lounge.
Instead of teaching us to swim, they spent time on pointless exercises, like making us take off our goggles to see underwater. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t learn to swim there.
A year later, my sister taught me in a hotel pool on vacation. That swim teacher? Still a symbol of childhood betrayal.
My high school had uniforms, even for PE—approved shirts and khaki shorts. I only had one PE shirt, with a hole in the armpit.
One day, as I walked by, my dad hooked his finger into the hole and tore it wider. He laughed when I complained.
I told him I already had enough problems without his help, but he just found the whole thing funny. It made me feel even worse.
My dad took me fishing once and told me to bring a friend. After three hours with no luck, we stayed quiet about it.
He asked if we wanted to head home, and when I said yes, he got angry, calling me a mama’s boy.
He dropped me a mile from home, making me walk back, and told me to wash the car later. My friend stood by me; my mom didn’t.
One day, I came home from school, and my dad randomly decided, “Today, you’re studying Spanish.” I told him I had other homework.
He didn’t care. As soon as he left, I started my other assignments. When he came back, he took my book, grounded me, and made me study Spanish.
My teacher didn’t believe me when I explained that my dad wouldn’t let me do my homework. Honestly, I don’t blame them—it sounds unbelievable.
At 16, I got my learner’s permit, and at 17, I took driver’s ed, but my parents refused to let me practice driving their cars.
My teacher asked how I was supposed to learn. I managed five hours of practice with my brother-in-law before the test, which went poorly.
At 18, I took extra lessons and finally got my license. Now, as an insurance agent, I know their excuse about higher rates wasn’t even true.
At 12, I was a chubby kid and started running at dusk, hoping fewer people would notice or judge me. It felt like a good way to begin.
On my second or third run, a guy walking his dog let it loose and sicced it on me for laughs, calling it back just before it reached me.
After that, I stopped running. The fear and humiliation were enough to keep me from trying again.
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