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.
