The sight that greeted me nearly made my head explode. Mark was sitting there with headphones on, lost in a video game, surrounded by energy drinks and junk food, completely oblivious to the chaos around him. The boys’ room had been turned into a neon-lit gamer cave—TV, LED lights, even a mini-fridge. My rage boiled over. After a screaming match and dragging the boys into bed myself, I decided enough was enough.
The next morning, I began my revenge—with a chore chart, bedtime stories, dinosaur-shaped sandwiches, and a strict 9 PM screen-time rule. For a week, I treated Mark like the child he was acting like—plastic plates, sippy cups, and all. But it wasn’t until I called in the big guns—his mom—that he finally cracked. Seeing his mother storm through the door and scold him like a teenager was the final blow. Humbled and red-faced, Mark apologized. And while I accepted it, I made one thing clear: the boys need a dad, not a roommate with a controller. Lesson learned… for now.