When Nina and I got back from vacation, we expected peace—maybe a glass of wine. Instead, we walked into a disaster zone. My brother Ted had moved in, trashed the house, and acted like he owned the place. Turns out, my parents gave him permission while we were away. Beer cans, dirty laundry, and that awful smell greeted us at the door. I couldn’t believe the audacity—Ted never asked, and he clearly never planned to leave.
Ted shrugged it off like it was no big deal. My parents insisted I “help out” since I had the space. Nina was furious and packed a bag, giving me one week to fix it. I promised her I would—and quietly began my revenge. No fights, just quiet disruption—my kind of justice.
I cut the Wi-Fi, turned off the hot water, stocked the fridge with tofu, and blasted music at 6 a.m. Ted cracked by day five and stormed out, whining all the way back to our parents. He couldn’t stand the life he created for himself in my home. I cleaned up, made a nice dinner, and invited Nina home. She returned with a smile, and I knew I had won.
I called my parents and said, “Ted’s out. He’s your problem now.” They were livid, but I didn’t care—he was 42, not a lost teenager. Ted had to sleep in their garage and finally get a job. They blamed me, of course, but I slept like a baby. Nina and I had our peace—and our home—back for good.