Jeff, our stepdad, was always quick to remind us who the “real man” of the house was—himself. He strutted around, acting like the king of the castle, bragging about how he was the one who “kept the lights on” and made everything happen. Every dinner, without fail, he’d lounge in his recliner, patting his belly and boasting, “You’re all lucky I’m around.” Mom, Jane, always nodded, not because she agreed, but because she hated conflict. She was raised to keep the peace, even if it meant swallowing her pain. We saw it all—the way Jeff wore her down, how she shrank under his control. Chloe, Lily, Anthony, and I begged her to leave him for years, but she stayed.
As we grew older and moved out, we stayed close. Chloe and I visited often, Anthony called regularly. But none of us were prepared for what Jeff would do next. For weeks leading up to Mom’s birthday, Jeff bragged about a “surprise gift.” “It’s gonna knock her socks off,” he said, grinning like an idiot. We tried to stay hopeful, but deep down, we knew better.
The big day came. We all gathered in the living room, gifts in hand. After Mom unwrapped ours, Jeff handed her a big, beautifully wrapped box. Her eyes lit up. For a moment, she looked like a teenager opening a love letter.
Then she lifted the lid.
Twelve rolls of four-ply toilet paper.
Jeff burst into laughter. “Get it? Four-ply for your four kids. And soft—just like you!”
The room went dead silent. Mom let out a nervous laugh, but we could see the tears in her eyes. That was the last straw. We were done watching her get humiliated.
Two days later, we set our plan into motion. Chloe suggested we lure Jeff to his favorite Chinese restaurant. “He’ll come for free food,” she smirked. Lily raised an eyebrow. “And what then?” “Just wait,” Chloe grinned.
We made it happen—told Jeff dinner was on us. He puffed up like a proud rooster. “About time!” he boomed. “Finally showing some appreciation.”
The restaurant was packed, red lanterns glowing and the air filled with the smell of chili and ginger. Jeff ordered his usual, but we made sure to load the table with the spiciest dishes: mapo tofu, Szechuan beef, Kung Pao everything.
Jeff bragged, “I can handle spice. Nothing fazes me.” But after one bite, his face turned red, sweat dripped from his forehead, and he was gasping for breath, still trying to prove he was tough.
Meanwhile, back at the house, Lily and Mom were packing everything that belonged to her—even Jeff’s beloved recliner. Chloe, with her petty genius, made sure they took every single roll of toilet paper.
After dinner, Jeff complained about Mom and Lily not showing up. We played dumb and drove him home. The moment he walked in, he froze.
“My recliner’s gone!” he shouted.
“Yep,” Chloe said, cool as a cucumber. “Mom took what was hers.”
His stomach growled loudly, and he doubled over, rushing to the bathroom.
Seconds later, we heard him scream, “Where’s the toilet paper?!”
I could barely contain my laughter.
Mom stepped out of the garage, called down the hall, and said, “I took that, too. And I’m leaving you, Jeff. For good.”
“You can’t leave me like this!” he screamed.
“Watch me,” she snapped back.
We left him behind, groaning and locked in the bathroom, suffering from spicy regret.
The next day, Jeff left dozens of voicemails—apologies, pleading, nonsense. Mom didn’t answer a single one.
Instead, we sent him a birthday gift—a jumbo pack of toilet paper, wrapped in shiny paper, with a note: “For a real man.”
Mom moved in with Lily. She’s finding a job, rebuilding her life. Anthony cheered when we told him what happened. And Jeff? He’s still complaining to anyone who’ll listen.
But Mom? She’s finally free. And we’re at peace.