My Parents Gave My Room To My Stepsister. But She Smashed A Wall And…

The Battle for the Pink Bedroom

My parents gave my room to my stepsister, but she smashed a wall and ended up paralyzed. Now I’m living my best life knowing they can’t do anything.

Victoria, my new stepsister, questioned, pointing to my bedroom, “I want this room. Can’t I have it?”

I laughed, believing it was a joke. I have had that room from age 6. My mom and I placed butterfly decals on the walls before she died.

She was informed the guest room is next door. She faced Dad.

“Butterfly and pink are my favorites.”

She entered my bedroom and stroked my mom’s antique vanity desk.,

“This suits my cosmetics collection. Please. Also, the guest room has few closets.”

She smiled sweetly, fakely, and continued, “You can consider it your gift to me. New family, new beginnings.”

I looked at Dad, expecting for him to respond. Anything. Instead, he approached me and asked, “Would you mind giving up your room for your new sibling? She really wants it. If you agree, I’ll give you the garage. Decorate, refurbish, and bring your mom’s stuff down there.”

A New Life in the Garage

The garage was roughly three times my bedroom, and I was alone on the first level., It was perfect. I smiled and hugged him.

“Deal.”

Victoria giggled when she learned I was sent to the garage and instructed me to leave my mom’s pink room. It took four months to turn that dirty garage into my ideal room. I added built-in bookshelves, a reading corner with floor cushions, fairy lights between the rafters, and a workstation with a garden view via our new window.

I put a little projector near my bed for movie nights and put photographs of myself and my mom there. All my buddies started going there, and schoolmates boast. Victoria’s expression darkened as she saw it.

She shouted in our parents’ room. I have a bedroom while she has a studio.

She said, “This isn’t fair. I’m the new sibling. I should get the nice things, right?”

My stepmom groaned and glanced at my Dad.

“Maybe we can move rooms one final time.”

Dad didn’t cave this time.

“She spent her own money decorating and remodeling the room. The garage is hers. You get your requested pink bedroom. Discussion over.”

Victoria hyperventilated after losing. She paused.

“Fine. Keep your stupid garage. Not needed.”

That seemed to conclude it. For two weeks, Victoria obsessively improved the pink room. She bought pricey professional LED strips that sync to music, put in a built-in vanity, and set a small bar outside her room to outdo my garage.

Dad had to use his credit card to pay her ideas to preserve the peace, but nothing seemed to please her. She’d pull visitors upstairs to show them her renovations, then storm away when they demanded to see the legendary garage room. She realized she needed more room for her creativity.

The Day the House Crumbled

Victoria faked illness and remained home as my parents and I celebrated my cousin’s graduation. She watched from the window as we drove away before taking a sledgehammer into her room and smashing the wall between the pink and guest bedrooms to make one big room. For four seconds, the pink-guest room wall fell like she planned.

Then the unsupported ceiling beam moved. The neighbors heard lightning-like cracking. Drywall, insulation, and a huge ceiling joist collapsed.

Victoria glanced up to see it approaching but couldn’t dive quickly enough., She was trapped by the beam at her skull base. She was awake and screaming for aid, but we were hours from home.

She was stuck for four hours before our neighbors contacted 911.

The paramedic remarked, “She repeated, ‘I can’t feel anything.'”

We arrived seven hours later and waited at the hospital for surgery. The doctor left after an hour to confirm. Victoria would never lower her neck again.

She’d need a ventilator to breathe and 24-hour care. She will never walk or do anything independently again at 19. When she could talk via the ventilator, she requested to see me.,

She could seek comfort or assistance. She muttered, “You made me feel like I had to compete for space in my own house. I’ll never paint my nails, try on clothing, or use a phone again. I simply wanted to join in the family.”

Stepmom blamed me and Dad, asking, “Why couldn’t you have shared your room? Why didn’t you offer to paint her bedroom when you saw how much she desired a cool room?”

The top level was locked off. Victoria moved into the garage because it was the only space large enough for all her medical equipment.