My stepdad told me to never touch anything in his house without permission.
The Rule and the Chaos
My stepdad told me to never touch anything in his house without permission. He didn’t think that one through. My stepdad, Greg, had been blaming me for everything since he moved in 6 months ago, like the scratch on his car that was already there, or the coffee maker that broke because it was 12 years old.
He’d measure the distance between furniture and the wall with an actual ruler and accused me of moving things when they were off by half an inch. One Saturday, he grounded me because a picture frame was supposedly crooked, even though I hadn’t been in that room for days.
“You’re always touching things that don’t belong to you,” he said while my mom stood there looking exhausted.
“How about this?
Never touch anything in this house without my permission.” “My mom tried to say that was unreasonable.” But Greg cut her off, saying he was tired of me disrespecting his belongings, and this would teach me boundaries.
“Not a single thing without asking first,” he repeated, looking proud of his new rule. I said okay and went to my room already planning exactly how this would play out.
The next morning, Greg started banging on my door because I hadn’t taken out the trash like I did every week.
I can’t touch the trash bags without your permission.
I called through the door. He stood there giving me permission for the garbage bags. Then realizing I’d also need permission for the door knob, the garage door, the trash cans, and the driveway gate.
The garbage truck passed while he was still listing things, and the smell of rotting trash would linger for another week, making his precious house stink.
Later, I accidentally grabbed a glass of water without thinking, and Greg absolutely exploded, screaming about how I couldn’t follow one simple rule and grounding me for another week.
“If you’re going to be this strict about it, I need written permission so I don’t mess up again,” I said.
And he actually wrote, “Can touch water glasses on a piece of paper.” From then on, I asked for written permission for everything, and he had to provide it or look like the psycho he was.
The house started falling apart fast because I couldn’t do any chores without touching things. When his sister visited and saw dishes piled up and the bathroom disgusting, she asked Greg why he wasn’t keeping his house clean.
He tried to explain about teaching me a lesson, but she looked at him like he’d lost his mind and told my mom she was worried about her living with someone so controlling. His reputation in the family started crumbling as word spread that he wouldn’t let a kid touch dishes.
I stopped doing homework because all the school supplies in the house belonged to Greg. And when my grades tanked, the school called him in for a parent conference.
The principal said she was deeply concerned about Greg’s parenting methods and mentioned that preventing a child from doing homework could be considered educational neglect.
Greg tried to explain his household rule, but sounded completely unhinged, and the principal started documenting everything for a potential child services report.
My mom tried to intervene, but Greg insisted I was manipulating the situation. Meanwhile, his house was becoming unlivable because I’d stopped turning off lights, stopped closing the refrigerator, and was eating meals standing over the sink.
His electric bill tripled. All his organic food rotted. And when his boss came for dinner and found me eating spaghetti with my hands directly from the pot, Greg’s professional reputation took a massive hit.
His boss left early and started treating Greg differently at work, like he was unstable.
Greg’s notebook of permissions grew thicker every day as he had to account for doorork knobs, chairs, the TV remote, my toothbrush, and hundreds of other things. My mom found him up at 2:00 in the morning frantically writing permissions for the next day and told him he looked insane.
She started sleeping in the guest room and told her friends that Greg had become impossible to live with. And soon everyone knew he was the guy who made his stepkid get written permission to use the toilet.
Then the school called threatening legal action because I’d missed a week of assignments and they considered Greg’s rules a form of abuse.
His company’s HR department got an anonymous tip about his home situation, probably from his boss. And suddenly Greg was being investigated at work, too.
The neighbors had noticed me standing in the yard because I couldn’t touch the door to go back inside without permission, and they’d started their own documentation of Greg’s bizarre behavior.
Greg was screaming at me about ruining his life while my mom packed her bags, saying she couldn’t watch this anymore.
I stood there silently because I hadn’t asked permission to touch the kitchen chair to sit down, watching the washing machine in the corner that had been running for 2 days straight because I’d started it before the rule and couldn’t touch it again to stop it.
The machine was shaking violently from the unbalanced load, water pooling everywhere, and I could see it lurching forward with each spin cycle.
Greg was standing right in front of it, still yelling about how I’d turned everyone against him when the machine made a horrible grinding sound and started sliding across the floor.
My mom grabbed my arm and pulled me back. But Greg was too busy ranting to notice the washer breaking free from the wall completely.
I watched it tear loose from the water lines with a metallic shriek.
Water spraying everywhere. The heavy machine sliding straight toward Greg, who still hadn’t turned around. The metal corner of the washer slammed into the back of Greg’s left knee and hip with a wet thud.
His legs buckling instantly as he crashed sideways into the kitchen cabinets. His shoulder hit the cabinet door first, splintering the cheap wood, then his head bounced off the counter edge on the way down.
Water kept spraying from the torn hoses, soaking everything, making the floor slick as the washer kept sliding forward on its own momentum.
The machine’s weight pressed against Greg’s legs where he’d fallen, pinning him between the washer and the cabinets while he made this awful groaning sound.
Mom was screaming at me to help him to grab the washer to do something, but I stayed exactly where I was standing.
I couldn’t touch the washer without his permission. Couldn’t move the kitchen chairs to get closer. Couldn’t even grab towels from the drawer to stop the water spreading across the floor.
Mom looked at me with this expression that went from panic to horror to understanding in about 2 seconds when I said I needed Greg’s permission to touch anything to help.
She tried pulling the washer herself, but it was too heavy, especially with water making everything slippery and Greg was yelling in pain every time she moved it even slightly.
I pulled out my phone from my pocket, the one thing that was actually mine and not Greg’s property, and dialed 911.
While mom kept trying to lift the washer, the dispatcher asked what the emergency was, and I explained about the washing machine accident, then had to explain why I couldn’t help move it off my stepdad because of his household rule about not touching anything without permission.
She went quiet for a second, probably writing notes about our crazy house, then said units were on the way.
Mom was still trying to get Greg to give me permission to help, but he was groaning too loud to form actual words, just making these pain sounds while water pulled around him.
The EMTs showed up in about 8 minutes, though it felt way longer with Greg trapped and mom crying and water spreading everywhere. Two guys rushed in first, saw the mess, and immediately went for the water valve under the sink while their partner brought in equipment.
