After a week-long business trip, I was more than ready to come home to my family. It had been a long week away from my boys, Tommy (6) and Alex (8), and my husband, Mark. I knew my sons were probably counting down the days, and honestly, so was I. Mark is a wonderful dad, but let’s be real—he’s more of the fun parent than the one who keeps things running smoothly.

As I pulled into the driveway late at night, around midnight, I felt a wave of relief. The house was dark and quiet, exactly how it should be at that hour. I grabbed my suitcase, quietly unlocked the door, and slipped inside, eager to collapse into bed. But almost immediately, I sensed something was off.

My foot brushed against something soft. Confused, I flipped on the hallway light, and there they were—Tommy and Alex—curled up on the cold, hard floor, tangled in their blankets like two little puppies. Their faces were smudged with dirt, and their hair was a wild mess. My heart started racing. Why were my kids sleeping in the hallway?

Had something happened? A fire? A gas leak? I tiptoed past them, careful not to wake them, determined to figure out what was going on. The living room looked like a tornado had blown through it—pizza boxes, soda cans, and what appeared to be melted ice cream scattered everywhere. But still, no sign of Mark.

I hurried to our bedroom, hoping to find him there, but the bed was untouched. His car was in the driveway, so where was he? That’s when I heard it—faint, muffled sounds coming from the boys’ bedroom.

I crept to the door, my imagination running wild. Was he hurt? Had someone broken in? I pushed the door open slowly and found… Mark. Sitting in the middle of what used to be our kids’ room, completely absorbed in a video game.

The room had been transformed into some sort of gamer’s dreamland. There was a massive TV, LED lights everywhere, and even a mini-fridge. Energy drink cans were scattered around him. I stood there, in shock, my rage building.