My brother’s wife kicked him out because he’s a parasite. I had to take him in. Now, he spits seeds on my floor, dumps dirty dishes, and turns my home into a landfill.
I told him, “Change or get out!” He just smirked. To my shock, he had secretly forwarded his mail to my address. Bills, magazines, even a “get rich quick” course—his name was plastered all over everything.
It was like he decided this was his house now, and I was just lucky to live in it. I let it go for a few days, thinking maybe he was just disorganized or going through a phase. I told myself, “It’s just temporary.
He’s hurting.” But each day, he got more comfortable, while I got closer to exploding. He’d leave half-eaten food on the coffee table. Wipe his greasy hands on my curtains.
One night, he came home drunk and knocked over a lamp my late grandma gave me. Didn’t apologize. Just laughed and said, “Relax, it’s just a lamp.”
I snapped.
“Listen, I let you in because I thought you needed help. But you’re acting like you own the place,” I said. He looked at me dead in the eye and said, “Well, maybe I should.
You clearly need someone to liven this dump up.”
That night, I started locking my bedroom door. The next week, I found out he quit his job. Not because he had a plan or something better lined up.
No, because, as he put it, “I’m not built for the 9 to 5 grind, man. I’m made for more.”
More of what? Netflix and leaving socks all over my living room?
I started asking friends for advice. Some told me to kick him out immediately. Others said to give him a deadline.
One even joked, “Change the WiFi password. That’ll do it.”
But none of it felt right. We’d grown up sharing a room.
We’d eaten cereal for dinner when Mom couldn’t afford groceries. I used to sneak half my school lunch into his backpack so he wouldn’t go hungry. So yeah, it hurt to see this version of him.
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