It started innocently enough—Jack, my quiet strategist, curled into the corner of the couch with his Nintendo Switch and the expression of someone about to save pixelated lives. He deserved peace. He deserved autonomy. He deserved…about six uninterrupted minutes before James entered like a caffeinated raccoon on roller skates.

James had no plan. James is the plan.

He approached like someone who heard the words “personal space” and decided they were fictional. One sock on. Goldfish dust in his hair. Holding a fork he had no culinary intentions for. Jack braced. I held my breath.

Would it be the soft poke to the shoulder followed by maniacal giggling? The dramatic dive across Jack’s lap screaming “I’M IN THE GAME NOW”? Or the classic: licking the screen and calling himself Luigi?

It was, in fact, all three. Back to back. A triple move combo so chaotic I briefly wondered if James was actually a cartoon character brought to life by sugar and spite.

Jack whispered something. I didn’t hear it—but I saw it in his face. The internal monologue of a big brother who loves his sibling more than silence, but less than uninterrupted Switch access. I wanted to intervene. I wanted to say, “James, let your brother breathe.” But I knew any interference might escalate things into interpretive dance and sock-throwing.

So I waited. I watched. I breathed through it like I was observing a rare animal behavior documentary. Jack’s jaw twitched. James smiled like someone who just pressed a self-destruct button labeled “Sibling Bonding.”

And somehow—somehow—they settled. Jack let James hold a controller that wasn’t connected to anything, and James felt powerful. For four magical minutes, they were both content.

Until James declared, “I WIN,” and turned off the console.

Pray for us.