MY PARENTS MOVED MY BROTHER INTO MY HOUSE WHILE I WAS ON VACATION – A WEEK LATER, HE WAS BEGGING TO LEAVE.
My older brother, Ted (42M), refuses to work, freeloads off my parents, drinks all day, and takes zero responsibility. He also has two kids with two different women, neither of whom he supports.
Despite this, my parents coddle him, treating him like he can do no wrong. Meanwhile, I pursued a career in biology, which they saw as a dead-end. They ignored me for years until I became successful through AI research and bought my dream house last month. Suddenly, they were all over me, insisting I let Ted move in because it was my “turn” to take care of him.
I politely refused.
But when my wife and I returned from vacation two weeks ago, I found Ted living in my house, his stuff everywhere — beer cans, dirty clothes, old furniture. And he, lounging on my couch like he owned the place, with a bowl of chicken wings on his belly.
Me: “Ted… what is all this?!”
Him: “I moved in, parents helped with stuff. We just skipped your ‘YES’ part.”
He grinned. Okay. I smiled broadly in return, creating a plan in my head, and in only one week, he dreamt of moving out.
The first day, I let Ted settle in, pretending to accept the situation. But I made one thing clear: he had to contribute. “Rent isn’t free here, Ted. You’ll have to earn your keep.”
He laughed. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
By the second day, I woke him up at 6 AM with loud music. “Time to get to work!” I announced. I handed him a bucket and a mop. “Start with the kitchen.”
He grumbled but did it.
The third day, I “accidentally” cut off the WiFi. No games, no movies, no social media. He came to me, looking annoyed. “Dude, the internet’s out.”
“Oh? Must be because I didn’t get help with the yard work yesterday,” I said with a shrug.
The fourth day, I cooked a healthy, high-protein meal for my wife and me. Ted got plain boiled vegetables and unsalted chicken breast. “Gotta keep your energy up for chores, man. Junk food’s bad for you.”
He stared at his plate, horrified. “Where are the snacks? The chips? The wings?”
“Not in this house. We eat clean.”
By the fifth day, I started playing motivational podcasts in the morning. “How to Be an Independent Adult” was the theme. Ted groaned but couldn’t escape them.
The sixth day, I invited a few of my AI researcher friends over for a casual meeting at home. We discussed work, success, and financial planning. Ted sat in the corner, miserable, nursing a beer that was now the last one in the house.
That night, he finally cracked. “Man, I can’t do this. I need my own space. I need my freedom.”
I feigned concern. “Oh no, are you sure? You just got settled.”
“Nope, I’m out. I need to get back to my life.”
By the seventh day, he had packed up and was gone.
When my parents called to yell at me, I told them, “Ted left on his own. He said he needed freedom. I just gave him a taste of real life.”
Now, I ask you: was I wrong to do this?
