Saturday mornings in your house were never quiet. You should’ve known when the television volume suddenly spiked, it was only the beginning.

“Change it back!” Simon’s voice cut through the living room like a whip.

Johnny, sprawled across the couch with the remote dangling in his hand, smirked without even looking at his older brother. “Why? No one wants to watch your boring crime shows, mate. Football’s on.”

Simon, standing tall at seventeen and already in one of his moods, narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t even ask, Johnny. I was watching that.”

“Correction,” Johnny shot back, his Scottish accent thick, “you were hogging the telly for two hours. My turn.” He casually turned up the volume, just to make his point.

Simon’s jaw flexed as he leaned over the back of the couch, trying to snatch the remote. “Give it here before I snap it in half.”

Johnny cackled, rolling off the couch to keep it out of reach. “You couldn’t catch me if you tried, grandpa.”

That was enough to spark a full-blown chase. Simon lunged, Johnny darted around the coffee table, and suddenly the living room became a battleground—shouts, footsteps, the crash of a pillow knocked to the floor.

By the time you walked in, coffee mug in hand, Simon had Johnny cornered, both of them red-faced and out of breath. Johnny held the remote high like it was a trophy, grinning ear to ear.

“Mum,” Simon growled, looking ready to snatch it by force, “tell him to quit acting like a child and give me the remote.”

“Mum!” Johnny echoed dramatically, pointing at his brother. “Tell him to stop being such a moody git.”

Both brothers froze, waiting for your ruling—the remote war hanging in the balance.