After spending a week away on a business trip, all I could think about was getting home to my kids, Tommy and Alex. My husband Mark had assured me everything would be fine in my absence, but as the car pulled into the driveway at midnight, a sense of unease washed over me. The house was dark and too quiet, especially considering Mark’s tendency to let things get chaotic. I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door, eager to collapse into bed. What greeted me on the other side of the door, however, was far from the peaceful homecoming I expected.

I opened the door to find Tommy and Alex sprawled out on the cold, hard floor of the hallway, fast asleep. They were wrapped in blankets, but that didn’t make the sight any less jarring. Their faces were smudged with dirt, and their clothes were wrinkled and untidy. They looked like they’d been through a war zone, not a week under their father’s care.

My heart raced, and my mind spun with worst-case scenarios. What happened? Why were my boys sleeping on the floor? Where was Mark? I tiptoed past the kids, careful not to wake them just yet, and headed toward the living room. What I saw there didn’t help calm my nerves. The place was a disaster. Pizza boxes and empty soda cans were scattered across the coffee table, and what looked like melted ice cream dripped off the edge. This wasn’t the home I’d left behind. It was as if a tornado had ripped through our living room.