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.
One morning, I came out of my room to find my favorite plant—an old jade tree I’d kept alive since college—dead. Not just dead. Uprooted, the pot shattered, soil everywhere.
He had moved it to make space for his “home gym”—a pair of dumbbells and a foldable yoga mat he never used. That was it. I told him, “You have two weeks.
Either get your life together or get out.”
He looked up from his bowl of cereal and said, “Two weeks? That’s not even enough time to manifest success.”
I wanted to scream. Then, things took a turn.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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