My foster brother said video games triggered his childhood trauma, so my parents made me move my PS5 to the spider‑infested garage. I set up a camera after my controller went missing.

My foster brother insisted I was poverty‑shaming his rough childhood by playing video games, and our parents agreed. Norman had spent the first thirteen years of his life in one of the worst crack houses in the city. Despite this, he actively claimed it didn’t give him any sort of trauma or PTSD. He was proud of coming out “unaffected,” until one year he found out my Christmas present was worth fourteen dollars more than his.

Suddenly he was a broken victim with complex PTSD, and seeing younger kids get nice things supposedly activated his repressed memories. When my ten‑year‑old cousin got LED lights for her birthday, he broke the remote because his childhood had “no light.” He even told my aunt to stop buying her kids Christmas presents, then demanded our parents compensate him for what he never had with monthly surprise gifts.

When I got a PS5 with my own money, he said this was emotional violence. I first told him he could play too, even offered to buy him a custom‑made controller, but he refused. Upon his request, my parents only let me play when he wasn’t in the living room. I even used headphones, but that wasn’t enough. Norman didn’t feel safe walking around the house knowing his repressed trauma was, in his words, “being shoved in his face.”

Within a week, the PS5 was moved to my bedroom, where the monitor ran at thirty fps. That satisfied Norman for two days. I got home from school and found Mom cradling him on the bathroom floor. He was shaking, tears streaming down his face. When he saw me, he started backing away like a mouse seeing a cat.

Twenty minutes of crying later, he opened up about how he’d caught a glimpse of the PS5 menu walking past my room.

“All those other kids,” he sobbed. “They had bedrooms. Games. I had nothing.”

Mom somehow took his side. She looked at me like I was the one who’d raised him in the crack house. The new rules were immediate: one hour of PS5 max, after nine p.m. only, because that’s when Norman went to his room. Minimum TV brightness so the light wouldn’t shine through under the door for him to see.

When I tried to protest, Dad said, “He’s never had what you have. Are games worth destroying his recovery?”

They made me feel like the bad guy, so for the next few weeks I tried my hardest. I followed every rule and focused on just enjoying my games. But then Norman started documenting my “violations”: photos of the light under my door, claiming it gave him glimpses of what he’d missed; recordings of the aggressive clicking of my controller from the hallway.

After enough of these so‑called violations, my parents gave me a choice: give the PlayStation 5 away or move it to the basement.

I chose the basement.

It had no heating and spiders dropped onto my head from the ceiling. The old TV down there had maybe three working pixels, but at least I could turn the volume up and play for as long as I wanted. That’s what they said—until Norman failed his midterm.

He’d been skipping class to hang out with college kids and smoke grass, but somehow failing was still my fault. He told our parents he could hear the PS5 through the floor during his study time but decided not to say anything so I could “enjoy what he never had.”

My parents looked at him like a martyr.

The next day they moved my PlayStation 5 into our garage, which hadn’t been used in years, so it would be “impossible” for Norman to hear. The garage was filled with opened paint cans from the eighties, dead wasps, cockroaches, ants, and insects science hasn’t even discovered. That’s where I spent my Saturdays, since gaming was once again banned on weekdays.

It stayed like that for three months. Nobody complained.

Then Norman needed something from the garage. When he walked in, it supposedly triggered full‑body tremors. He collapsed on the floor and needed help. That’s when my parents decided they were done. The only possible solution, they said, was to sell the PlayStation 5.

“He can play mobile games,” Norman said, still acting like Mother Teresa. “That’s what poor kids did. That’s what I did.”

My parents nodded. Mom started looking up secondhand PS5 prices on eBay.

That’s when I snapped.

“Shut up.” The words exploded out. “I offered to share. I’ve done everything you asked.”

Norman played the victim again.

“I’m sorry I was poor, okay? It’s my fault I have trauma and my parents beat me. I’m such a failure.”

“It’s okay, Normie,” Mom said, hugging him.

His face changed to a smile as she whispered, “He’s going to sell the console, sweetie. Don’t worry.”

I couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m done,” I yelled. “You want to see what your precious traumatized sweetie actually does?”

I pulled out my phone and connected it to the TV in the living room. I’d set up a camera after my controller went missing four weeks ago. Norman’s face went white. He marched toward me, but his sudden reaction caught my parents’ eyes.

“What’s going on, Norman?” Dad asked.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

“Every Sunday,” I interrupted, “when we’re at church, Norman’s been charging neighborhood kids ten dollars an hour to play my PS5.”

The footage started playing. There was Norman collecting money from the two quiet brothers from around the corner. Mom’s mouth fell open.

“I’m not done,” I said.

I swiped to the screenshots of Norman’s texts.

“Don’t worry,” one of them read. “My foster parents believe anything if I cry.”

Dad stepped forward.

“Norman, is this—”

“And isn’t it such a coincidence,” I cut in, “that the exact day these kids said they couldn’t afford to pay him anymore is when he demanded I sell the PlayStation 5 completely?”

The room went silent. Norman was about to cry—real tears this time. My parents just stared. The silence stretched on like someone had hit pause on the whole world. Norman’s face kept changing expressions like he was scrolling through filters, trying to find the one that would save him: first confusion, then hurt, then that wounded puppy look that usually worked on Mom.

The TV screen behind us still showed his text messages frozen in place, those words about his foster parents believing anything if he cried. Mom’s eyes darted between the screen and Norman, her mouth still hanging open like she couldn’t process what she was seeing. Dad stood there with his arms crossed, that vein in his forehead starting to show the way it did when he got really mad.

Finally Dad cleared his throat and pointed at the screen.

“Norman, explain the money.”

His voice was quiet but firm, like he was trying to hold back something bigger.

Norman immediately straightened up and put on his concerned face.

“I was creating a safe space for those kids whose parents can’t afford gaming systems,” he said, looking right at Mom. “You know how hard it is for poor families.”

Mom’s shoulders dropped a little, and I could see her already buying it.

“So you were helping them?” she asked, her voice soft again.

Norman nodded quickly. “They needed somewhere to play where they wouldn’t feel judged.”

While they went back and forth about Norman’s supposed charity work, I walked over to the TV stand and unplugged my PS5. The power cord came out with a satisfying click. Norman’s eyes tracked my movement, but when he started to say something, Dad held up his hand.

“We need to pause everything and have a proper family discussion,” he said.

I tucked the console under my arm and pulled out my phone, changing all my PlayStation passwords right there in front of them. Norman took a step toward me, but Dad blocked him.

“Give him space, Norman.”

Mom looked between all of us, then announced in her teacher voice that nobody would be playing any games until we sorted this out as a family.

The unfairness of it burned in my chest, but I knew arguing would just make things worse. I nodded and headed for the stairs with my PS5.

“This isn’t over,” Norman called after me.

In my room, I immediately opened my laptop and started uploading everything. The video files went to Google Drive first, then Dropbox, then OneDrive. My hands shook a little as I created folder after folder labeled with dates and descriptions. The screenshots of Norman’s texts got their own folder. The video of him collecting money got another. I even sent copies to Dad’s email with the subject line: EVIDENCE – DO NOT DELETE.

An hour later, Norman knocked on my door with that fake gentle knock he used when Mom was listening.

“Can we talk?” he asked through the door.

I opened it but didn’t let him in. He had his sad face on again.

“I was actually monitoring those kids to make sure they played age‑appropriate games,” he said, his voice steady like he’d practiced. “I was planning to tell Mom and Dad about the money and donate it all to charity for underprivileged youth.”

I just stared at him until he shifted uncomfortably.

“You don’t believe me,” he said.

I kept staring.

“Fine. Be that way,” he muttered, and walked away.

Later that evening, I heard Dad on the phone in his office. He was calling the parents of the two brothers from our street, asking about Norman’s gaming sessions. His voice was professional, but I could hear the embarrassment underneath. I sat at the top of the stairs listening, but couldn’t make out their responses. No reply came that night, which made my stomach twist.

At dinner, Mom didn’t even mention the money or the exploitation. Instead she went on about how I’d violated Norman’s privacy by setting up a hidden camera.

“Privacy is sacred in this house,” she said, passing the mashed potatoes. “We don’t spy on family members.”

I wanted to remind her about Norman’s photos of the light under my door and his recordings of my controller clicking, but I just pushed food around my plate. Norman sat there looking victimized, occasionally sighing dramatically. Dad stayed quiet, cutting his chicken into smaller and smaller pieces.

“You could have just talked to us,” Mom continued. “Instead of this ambush.”

The word ambush made my jaw clench, but I kept eating in silence.

After dinner, I went back to my room and texted my friend from school everything that had happened. I needed someone outside this house to tell me I wasn’t crazy. Their response came fast—a string of shocked emojis and then real words about how messed up the whole situation was.

“Norman’s playing quite the game here, isn’t he?” they wrote. “Those tears about seeing all those other kids with bedrooms sound rehearsed when he’s charging those same kids money to play the PS5 he supposedly can’t bear to see.”

They offered to let me crash at their place if things got worse. Just knowing I had somewhere to go made the walls feel less like they were closing in.

The next morning, I woke up to my phone buzzing with notifications. Norman had posted on social media about being ambushed and betrayed by family who should support each other through difficult times. The post already had dozens of comments from kids at school and people from Mom’s book club, all offering support and saying how strong he was.

My stomach dropped as I scrolled through the responses, watching him control the whole narrative before I even had a chance to defend myself.

I grabbed my backpack and headed to school, my stomach churning as I walked through the main entrance. Kids were already whispering and pointing, their eyes following me down the hallway. Someone had shared Norman’s post in the group chat, and now everyone knew something was going down at my house.

I kept my head down and made it to first period, where my friend gave me a look that was half pity, half curiosity. The teacher started talking about the Revolutionary War, but I couldn’t focus on anything except the buzzing phones around me.

Second period had barely started when the office assistant knocked on the door and handed my teacher a pink slip with my name on it.

The walk to the counselor’s office felt like it took forever, my sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. Deina Nair was waiting for me with her door open, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. She closed the door and sat down, pushing a box of tissues toward me even though I wasn’t crying.

She said she’d heard there was some stuff happening at home and wanted to check in. I started telling her everything—from the crack house story to the PS5 in the garage to the footage I’d shown my parents. She listened without interrupting, just nodding and taking notes on her yellow pad.

When I finished, she leaned back and told me I’d done nothing wrong by protecting my property and documenting what happened. She pulled out a folder and started writing down a plan for me to follow: document everything with dates and times, set clear boundaries about what I would and wouldn’t discuss with Norman, don’t engage when he tries to provoke me, keep copies of everything in multiple places, including a cloud drive she helped me set up right there.

For the first time in days, I felt like I had some control over the situation.

That evening, when I got home, Dad was in my room setting up the PS5 on my desk. He didn’t say much, just that it was staying in my room from now on. No common areas at all. He plugged everything in and made sure it was working, then squeezed my shoulder before leaving. It wasn’t an apology, but the gesture meant something.

I spent an hour organizing my games and setting up the system exactly how I wanted it. Around eight that night, Norman knocked on my door with a practiced look of sadness on his face.

He said he was sorry for any misunderstanding and hoped we could share the gaming system like brothers should.

I told him, “No thanks,” and started closing the door.

He immediately raised his voice so our parents could hear him saying he’d tried to make peace, but I’d refused to forgive him. Mom called up asking what was happening, and Norman told her he’d apologized but I wouldn’t accept it.

Three days passed with Norman giving me the silent treatment, which was pretty nice. Then Saturday morning, someone knocked on our front door while I was eating cereal. Mom answered it, and I heard Emiline Kant’s voice asking about money her sons had paid Norman for PS5 time.

Mom’s face went completely white as she realized the neighbors knew about the whole thing. Dad actually looked relieved to have someone else confirming what I’d been saying. Emiline stood there with her arms crossed, saying her boys had paid forty dollars total and she wanted it back.

I stayed in the hallway listening as Mom tried to explain it was all a misunderstanding. Dad disappeared into his office and came back with his laptop, pulling up our home security system. He started checking the footage from all the Sundays we’d been at church, his face getting more serious with each video. There was clear evidence of kids coming and going from our garage, timestamps matching exactly with when we were at service.

He turned the laptop toward Mom, showing her kid after kid entering our garage while we were gone. Mom kept trying to find some explanation, but even she couldn’t argue with the video evidence.

That evening, we all sat around the dining room table for a family meeting. Dad said Norman needed to pay back the money, and we needed to establish new boundaries around the gaming system. Mom immediately changed the subject to whether I’d violated Norman’s privacy by recording him without permission.

She went on about the ethics of surveillance and how I’d broken trust in the family. I was too tired to even argue anymore and just sat there while she talked. Norman sat there looking victorious while Mom defended him.

The next day, I went to the electronics store and bought a small lockbox for my controllers and cables. I gave Dad the combination, but nobody else, setting it up in my closet where I could lock everything away. Norman saw me carrying it upstairs and called it “aggressive behavior.” I just shrugged and kept walking to my room.

That night, my phone buzzed with a long text from Norman about how I was destroying the family. He said I should delete all the footage for everyone’s sake and stop trying to turn our parents against him. I didn’t respond, but I did screenshot his message and add it to my evidence folder that Deina had suggested I keep.

The manipulation was so obvious when you really looked at it.

Sunday at church, we were standing in the lobby after service when Cordelia Bruno walked up to Mom. She asked about all those kids she’d seen going in and out of our garage last week when she was walking her dog. Mom’s face turned bright red as she realized the whole congregation might know about this. I felt bad seeing her embarrassed, but also frustrated that public shame mattered more to her than Norman’s actual behavior.

The next week, Elise showed up for Norman’s regular social services check‑in. She had a thick folder with Norman’s name on it and a clipboard full of forms. Dad cleared his throat when she asked if there were any concerns to discuss, and he actually brought up the PS5 situation, which made Norman’s face go pale.

I sat on the couch watching Elise write down everything Dad said about the garage rental scheme and the money Norman collected from the neighbor kids. Her pen moved fast across the paper while Norman kept trying to interrupt, but she held up her hand to stop him. Mom sat there looking uncomfortable as Dad explained how Norman had been manipulating the situation for months.

Elise pulled out a different form and started creating what she called a behavioral contract. She wrote down specific rules about respecting other people’s property and not taking money from minors. The part about Norman having to pay back the forty dollars to each kid got underlined twice.

Norman nodded along while she was there, but I could see his jaw clenching. She made him sign the contract and gave copies to both my parents. Mom barely looked at hers before folding it up.

After Elise left, Norman immediately started making excuses about having no money. Dad suggested he could get a part‑time job at the grocery store that was hiring. Norman put his hand on his chest and said working would interfere with his “trauma recovery process.” The excuses just kept coming like a broken faucet that wouldn’t stop dripping.

Eden texted me that afternoon asking if I wanted to bring my PS5 to her house. Her parents had a finished basement with a huge TV, and they said I could come play whenever I wanted. It hurt having to remove my own property from my home, but the idea of not fighting about it every single day made the decision easier.

I packed up the console and all the games in a duffel bag. Eden’s mom picked me up and helped me carry everything inside. Their basement had soft carpet and a sectional couch that was way better than our spider‑filled garage. I hooked everything up to their TV and Eden’s little brother was so excited to watch me play.

For the first time in months, I could actually enjoy gaming without worrying about Norman’s next meltdown.

When I got home that evening, Norman was pacing in the living room. He’d noticed the PS5 was gone from my room and started yelling about me hiding “family property.” He actually used those exact words, like my gaming system belonged to everyone.

He said I was denying him the chance to make amends by sharing it with him. Mom asked where it went with this concerned look on her face. I told them it was at a friend’s house, and Norman’s face turned red.

He accused me of hoarding resources and being selfish with things that should be “communal.”

The next day, I came home from school to find my bedroom door open and my lockbox sitting on my bed. Mom had gone through it while I was gone, looking for the PS5. She confronted me in the kitchen about lying and hiding things from the family.

I pulled out my phone and showed her the text thread with Eden from the day before, proving I’d been transparent about moving it. The fact that she went through my private things without asking didn’t seem to bother her at all. She just kept saying family shouldn’t have secrets from each other.

Dad came home that night with his phone in his hand, looking serious. The neighbor had finally called him back and confirmed their kids paid Norman forty dollars each over several weeks. He showed Mom the text messages, and she went quiet for once.

Norman immediately claimed the neighbors were exaggerating and it was only once or twice. Dad pulled up his banking app and showed a deposit of eighty dollars from three weeks ago that matched the timeline. Norman’s story kept changing every time Dad presented new evidence.

Why did Norman think calling it “family property” would work when everyone knew the PS5 belonged to his foster brother? The way he kept changing his story every time new proof showed up made me wonder how he remembered all his different lies.

Mom declared that adults would handle “adult conversations” and told me to go to my room. I sat at the top of the stairs listening to them talk in circles below. Norman kept bringing everything back to his trauma and how hard his childhood was. Every time Dad tried to focus on the money owed, Mom would soften and say, “Maybe we should focus on healing instead of punishment.”

Dad’s voice sounded exhausted as he kept trying to bring the conversation back to the restitution Elise had required. The discussion went on for over an hour with nothing getting resolved.

At school the next day, I told Deina everything during lunch. She suggested I needed to practice setting boundaries with Norman. We spent the rest of the period role‑playing different scenarios where Norman would try to engage me about the PS5. She helped me practice saying one simple sentence over and over until, by the end of lunch, I felt confident repeating my boundary statement no matter what Norman said.

That evening, Norman started another one of his speeches about forgiveness and moving forward as a family. I looked him straight in the eye and calmly said my practiced sentence about the console being at a friend’s house and not discussing it further.

He kept talking about healing and second chances, but I just repeated the sentence one more time, then stood up and walked out of the room without looking back. Mom called after me that I was being rude, but Dad actually said I’d handled it well.

Three days passed before I noticed my gaming headset was gone from my desk where I always kept it. I searched my whole room twice, checking under the bed and behind my dresser. When I asked Norman about it during dinner, he just shrugged and said, “Maybe I lost it somewhere,” in that fake innocent tone that made my stomach turn.

Dad looked between us but didn’t say anything. Mom changed the subject to homework. Without any proof, I couldn’t do anything except add the headset to my growing list of missing stuff.

The next morning, Dad called a family meeting in the kitchen before school. He pulled out a piece of paper with a schedule written on it. The plan was simple: Norman and I would basically live like roommates who never talked—different mealtimes, different TV hours, different everything.

Mom’s face got all tight when she read it. She kept saying this would hurt our “brotherhood,” but Dad stood firm. After a week of trying, she finally agreed. The schedule went on the fridge with a magnet.

Two days later, Elise showed up for her follow‑up visit with a thick folder of papers. She spread them out on the dining room table like she was planning a battle. There were behavior logs, boundary lists, and a payment plan for Norman to pay back the neighbors. Her voice got serious when she told Mom that more problems could mean Norman got moved somewhere else.

Mom’s hands started shaking as she signed the papers.

That weekend, I heard Norman stumbling up the stairs at three in the morning. His eyes were red and glassy when he passed my door. The smell of weed followed him down the hallway. Dad wanted to drug test him right away, but Mom started crying about how stressed Norman was. She said testing him would be kicking him while he’s down.

I went back to my room and put in my earbuds.

Monday afternoon, Dad’s phone buzzed during dinner with a text from Emiline. She said if she didn’t get her money by Friday, she was taking us to small claims court. Mom’s fork dropped onto her plate with a loud clang. Her face went white as she kept asking what the neighbors would think.

Norman started his victim act again, saying everyone was ganging up on him. Fake tears rolled down his cheeks. Dad rubbed his temples and stood up from the table.

Thursday night, Dad wrote a check from our family savings to pay back all the neighbors Norman stole from—eight hundred dollars total, money that was supposed to be for our vacation. He told Norman he’d work it off doing chores, but we all knew that would never happen.

The unfairness made my chest feel like it was being squeezed. I had to leave the room before I said something I’d regret.

Friday evening, Norman called our aunt while Mom was making dinner. I could hear him through the wall, crying about how mean everyone was being to him. Twenty minutes later, our aunt called Mom’s phone, screaming about traumatizing a foster child. Mom spent over an hour trying to explain while also defending Norman. I heard her downplaying everything, saying it was all a misunderstanding. She kept apologizing to our aunt for upsetting her.

That same night, after everyone went to bed, Mom knocked on my door. She sat on my bed and asked if I could apologize to Norman for the camera thing. Her voice was soft and tired. I told her I wouldn’t apologize for protecting my own stuff. She looked disappointed but didn’t push it. Maybe she was finally starting to understand she couldn’t fix this with forced apologies.

The next day at school, Deina suggested I could keep my gaming stuff in a locker. I explained that a whole console wouldn’t fit in those tiny metal boxes. We sat in the cafeteria brainstorming other options for keeping my stuff safe. She said it wasn’t fair that I had to hide my own belongings in my own house. We both agreed Eden’s house was still the best place for now; her parents were cool about it.

That afternoon, I made my decision to keep the PlayStation 5 at Eden’s house for good. I’d only bring it home for special times when Norman was gone for sure. Eden’s parents said I could come over whenever I wanted to play. They even cleared a spot in their basement just for my setup. It wasn’t perfect, but at least I could game in peace.

Eden helped me set everything up, and we played for three hours straight. Her mom brought us snacks and didn’t complain about the noise once. Walking home that night, I felt lighter knowing my PS5 was safe. Norman couldn’t steal it, break it, or use it to manipulate our parents anymore.

The schedule Dad made was actually working, too. Norman and I barely saw each other except passing in the hallway. He started spending more time in his room or going out with his sketchy friends. Mom still looked sad about a “broken brotherhood,” but she stopped trying to force us together. Even Dad seemed more relaxed now that the constant fights had stopped. The house felt different—quieter, but also less tense.

A week went by with this weird peace, and I was actually starting to relax until I went down to the basement to grab my old PS4 controller I’d left on a shelf. The thing was smashed to pieces on the concrete floor, the plastic casing cracked open and buttons scattered everywhere.

Norman was upstairs watching TV when I brought up the pieces, and he barely looked away from the screen to tell me he’d “stepped on it in the dark.” The way his mouth twitched into this tiny smirk made it obvious he’d done it on purpose.

I just took photos of the broken controller and went back to my room.

Dad came home from work and saw the photos on my phone when I was showing him something else. For once, he actually got mad at Norman instead of me. He told Norman he had two choices: either pay me forty bucks for a new controller or do extra chores around the house for the next month to work it off.

Norman spent the next hour arguing about how unfair this was and how accidents happen and how I shouldn’t have left it in the basement anyway. But Dad didn’t budge. Mom sat on the couch the whole time not saying anything, which felt like progress, even though she kept giving Norman these sad looks.

Norman finally stormed off to his room and slammed the door so hard a picture fell off the hallway wall.

That night around eleven, I heard shouting from downstairs and then this huge crash that shook my whole room. I crept to the top of the stairs and saw a fist‑sized hole in the hallway wall, drywall dust all over the floor. Norman was sitting on the ground with Mom holding him and rubbing his back while he fake‑cried about how nobody understood him and how the chores were triggering his trauma.

Dad stood there looking completely defeated, and I could tell he’d already given up on making Norman follow through with anything.

The next morning, Dad was up early patching the hole with spackle while Norman slept in until noon. I stayed in my room most of the day, grateful for the lock on my door that I’d installed myself after Norman kept barging in without knocking.

Elise showed up on Tuesday after Mom called her about the wall incident and had a long meeting with my parents in the living room while Norman sulked in the kitchen. She decided Norman needed anger management sessions twice a week, starting immediately. He threw another fit about how therapy was making him worse, not better.

The first session was Wednesday, and he came back telling everyone the therapist was an idiot who didn’t understand real trauma. By the second session on Friday, the therapist called my parents with concerns about Norman’s resistance to treatment, but said they’d continue trying.

Sunday, we went to church like always, and Cordelia pulled Dad aside after the service to tell him she’d seen Norman behind the grocery store Thursday afternoon smoking weed with some high school kids who were known troublemakers. Dad’s face went completely still when she told him, and I could see him finally starting to realize the Norman problem went way deeper than just the PS5 situation.

On the drive home, nobody talked. Norman kept asking what Cordelia wanted, but Dad wouldn’t answer.

Monday morning, my parents sat us both down for new house rules—but they were only for Norman, not me. No phone after eight p.m., no going out without telling them where, no friends over without permission, and Mom would check his room every day for contraband.

Norman screamed about discrimination and how they were treating him like a criminal, but the rules stuck. Mom started her daily room checks that same day and kept finding stuff like empty beer cans and cigarette packs that she’d throw away without saying anything.

Norman saying he “stepped on it in the dark” when that controller was clearly smashed on purpose, that little smirk he gave me—those told me everything I needed to know about what really happened down in that basement.

Tuesday afternoon, Eden’s mom called me, worried about keeping my PS5 at their house much longer because they were concerned about liability if something happened to it. She gave me two weeks to find another solution, and the stress of constantly having to protect my own property was wearing me down.

I spent hours researching storage units and safe‑deposit boxes, but everything cost money I didn’t have. Wednesday night, I seriously thought about just selling the PS5 to end all this drama once and for all.

Part of me knew that would be letting Norman win, but I was so tired of fighting for something I’d bought with my own money. Dad found me looking at resale prices online and sat down next to me without saying anything for a while. Then he told me he understood whatever choice I made, and that sometimes peace was worth more than being right.

Something about him saying that made me decide to keep fighting for my property, because giving up felt like betraying myself.

Thursday went by without any major incidents. But Friday afternoon, Dad asked me not to play any games that weekend to let tensions cool down. I agreed, even though it wasn’t fair, because I could see he was trying to manage an impossible situation with Norman getting worse every day.

Norman was listening from the hallway, and I saw him smirk when Dad said I couldn’t game, like he’d won some kind of victory.

Saturday morning, I woke up to crashes coming from the garage and ran outside to find Norman tearing through boxes and old furniture looking for my PS5. He’d convinced himself I was hiding it there and was throwing stuff everywhere, making a huge mess. When he couldn’t find anything, he went straight to Elise, who was doing a home visit, and told her I must have sold the PlayStation 5 and kept all the money for myself.

She asked him for proof of sale or any evidence I’d sold it, but obviously he couldn’t provide anything because it wasn’t true.

That Sunday afternoon, Elise showed up without warning for another home visit, and I knew this was my chance to clear things up. I grabbed my phone and pulled up all the texts between me and Eden, showing how we’d arranged for the PS5 to stay at her place temporarily. Then I showed her the photos Eden had sent me of the console sitting safely in her room next to her desk. I opened my banking app and scrolled through months of statements, showing no big deposits that would indicate I’d sold anything.

Elise took notes on her tablet while looking through everything, and I could see her writing something about a pattern of false accusations. Norman watched from the doorway, getting redder and redder, until he finally exploded about how everyone always believes lies about him and stormed off to his room, slamming the door so hard a picture fell off the wall.

Elise tried to talk to him about the false accusations, but the second she knocked on his door, he started hyperventilating and gasping like he couldn’t breathe. Mom rushed over trying to help, but Elise just stood there typing notes into her tablet about his behavior instead of reacting to his performance.

She told Mom, very professionally, that she needed to maintain boundaries during the assessment, and Mom backed away looking confused.

I watched from the kitchen doorway, seeing someone finally not fall for his dramatic act, and it felt like watching a magic trick get exposed.

The next week, Dad surprised everyone by scheduling an intake appointment for family therapy, which Mom reluctantly agreed to after he reminded her about Elise’s warnings. Norman acted like he didn’t care when they told him, but later I saw him hunched over his phone, googling things like “how to manipulate therapists” and “what to say in family therapy to win.”

He left his phone unlocked on the counter when he went to the bathroom, so I quickly took screenshots of his search history before he came back.

At our first therapy session, the therapist was this older guy who didn’t react to Norman’s “confused” act when he assigned homework, including keeping separate spaces in the house and tracking restitution progress. Norman kept asking why any of this was necessary and acting like he didn’t understand, but the therapist just repeated the assignments without engaging with his deflections.

The new house rule they established was that my PS5 had to stay off‑site, and Norman couldn’t contact any neighborhood kids under sixteen—which wasn’t perfect, but at least it was officially documented. Mom signed the agreement looking like someone had died, while Norman made a big show of signing with theatrical reluctance and heavy sighs.

Within three days, Norman had already broken the rule by texting the quiet brothers about hanging out, and Dad actually followed through by taking his phone for a whole week. Mom tried to protest, saying it was too harsh, but Dad reminded her about Elise’s warning that Norman could be moved to a different placement if things didn’t improve.

Norman went completely silent and cold after that, which was somehow scarier than his usual dramatic performances because you never knew what he was planning. He used his laptop to post on social media about his “abusive household” and how his foster family was treating him like a prisoner.

But the comment section turned into a roast session. Kids from school who knew the real story started commenting about how he’d been charging money for the PS5 and lying about everything. The public humiliation seemed to affect him more than any punishment we’d tried, because he deleted the post within an hour—but screenshots were already being shared in group chats.

One evening when I was doing homework, Norman came into my room and offered what seemed like a genuine apology, saying he knew he’d been difficult. I thanked him but kept my distance and didn’t engage much because I couldn’t tell if this was real or just another strategy to get something.

He looked hurt when I didn’t immediately forgive him and trust him again, but after everything that had happened, I couldn’t afford to let my guard down.

That weekend, I packed up the PS5 and brought it to Eden’s house for a game night with friends, and it felt amazing to just play normally without any drama. We played for hours without worrying about volume, time limits, or someone having a meltdown about childhood trauma. I realized this might be how things would have to be from now on, and surprisingly, I was okay with keeping my gaming separate from home if it meant avoiding the constant battles.

When Elise came for her monthly review, she noted that Norman was showing partial compliance with the new rules but warned that continued issues could mean moving him to a different placement. Mom and Dad finally seemed to understand that this wasn’t just about video games, but about Norman’s whole pattern of manipulation and lying to get what he wanted.

Norman kept playing victim, but more quietly now, like he was testing boundaries to see what he could still get away with without triggering real consequences.

The next three weeks dragged by with everyone walking on eggshells around each other. Norman stopped his big dramatic scenes, but I’d catch him watching me from doorways when he thought I wasn’t looking. Mom and Dad kept the PS5 at Dad’s office, where I could only play it Saturday mornings before his weekend shift started.

I’d wake up at five a.m. and bike four miles in the dark just to get two hours of gaming in before he needed his desk back.

Norman started spending more time in his room, but I could hear him on the phone late at night talking to someone about “new opportunities” and “better deals.” My parents looked tired all the time now, like they’d aged five years in one month.

Dad started locking his home office when he left for work, and Mom put a padlock on the garage after Norman tried to sell our old lawn mower to some guy from Craigslist.

I got a job at the grocery store bagging groceries twenty hours a week and started putting every dollar into a savings account my parents didn’t know about. The bank teller helped me set it up without needing a parent signature since I was seventeen. Every shift I worked, I calculated how many more bags of groceries until I had first month’s rent and a deposit for my own place.

Norman tried following me to work once, but my manager kicked him out for harassing customers about donations for foster kids. I kept my work schedule hidden and started taking different routes home so he couldn’t track my hours or figure out how much money I was making.

Wow, what a ride that was. I’m really curious what kind of questions you’ll end up exploring on your own adventures, too. Can’t wait to do this again soon. Like the video. It helps more than you think.