Jeff had been in our lives since we were kids. Every dinner, he’d lean back in his worn recliner and deliver his favorite monologue: “You’re all lucky I’m here, keeping this house running.”
Sure, he paid the bills, but his attitude toward Mom made it hard to respect him. We’d tried convincing her to leave him, but she wouldn’t budge. Eventually, we all moved out.
Then Jeff took things too far. In the days leading up to Mom’s birthday, he wouldn’t stop boasting about the “special gift” he’d picked out for her.
When Mom’s birthday arrived, we gathered in the living room, ready to celebrate. Jeff, looking unusually pleased with himself, handed her a large, beautifully wrapped box. “Go on,” he urged. “Open it!”
Mom’s face lit up with cautious excitement as she untied the ribbon and peeled back the paper. But when she saw what was inside, her smile faltered.
A 12-pack of toilet paper. Four-ply. Jumbo rolls. “It’s soft, just like you!” Jeff declared, slapping his knee and roaring with laughter.
It wasn’t just a bad joke—it was cruel. We decided then and there that Jeff’s reign as “king of the castle” was over.
Two days later, we put our plan into action. We invited him to his favorite Chinese restaurant for a “family dinner.” The restaurant was buzzing, the air fragrant with spices and sizzling dishes.
Chloe, playing innocent, started ordering. Each dish was loaded with enough chili to bring a grown man to tears. “You can handle spicy, right, Jeff?” she asked, her voice dripping with fake concern. “Nothing’s too spicy for a real man.”
Jeff dove in, determined to prove his “manliness.” At first, he exaggerated his enjoyment, letting out an over-the-top moan. But soon, his face turned redder than the lanterns hanging above us.
When Jeff and I returned home, his stomach was already rumbling ominously. Moments later, we heard the bathroom door slam.
“WHERE’S THE TOILET PAPER?!” Jeff roared.
We couldn’t hold back anymore. Laughter spilled out as we stood in the hallway. “Mom took that too!” I called out. “After all, it’s hers!” From behind the door, Jeff groaned. “You can’t leave me like this!” he yelled. Mom stepped forward, her voice steady and firm. “Watch me,” she said. “I’m leaving you, Jeff. I’m taking my things—and my dignity.”
On Jeff’s birthday, we sent him a carefully wrapped gift: a jumbo pack of toilet paper, complete with a handwritten note: For a real man.
