My Foster Brother Said My PS5 “Triggered His Trauma,” So My Parents Banished It to a Spider-Filled Garage—Until the Camera I Hid Revealed What He’d Been Doing Behind Their Backs – Part 2

Their response came fast with 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? Those tears about seeing all those other kids with bedrooms sounds 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 the 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 the 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 Naier 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 8 that night, Norman knocked on my door with this 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 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.

3 days passed with Norman giving me the silent treatment, which 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 5 pounds 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 $40 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 electronic store and bought a small lock box 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 stopped 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, Alisa showed up for Norman’s regular social services check-in.

She had this 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. 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 $40 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 this 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 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 the 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 had 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 $40 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 $80 from 3 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 knows the PS5 belongs to his foster brother. The way he keeps changing his story every time new proof shows up makes me wonder how he remembers 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, Ode 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 the 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 lunch period role- playinging different scenarios where Norman would try to engage me about the PS5. She helped me practice saying one simple sentence over and over. 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 practice 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, I 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 handled it well.

3 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.” His voice had 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 meal times, 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.

2 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 gets moved somewhere else.

Mom’s hands started shaking as she signed the papers. That weekend, I heard Norman stumbling up the stairs at 3:00 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. His 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.

$800 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 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. 20 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 the 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 3 hours straight. His 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 or 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 piece, and I was actually starting to relax until I went down to the basement to grab my old PS4 controller I’d left on the shelf. The thing was smashed to pieces on the concrete floor with 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. But 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. And for once, he actually got mad at Norman instead of me. He told Norman he had two choices. Either pay me 40 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 11, 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 with 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, and he threw another fit about how therapy was making him worse, not better.