After a week away on a business trip, I returned home at midnight, eager to see my family. I expected to be greeted with hugs or maybe sleepy smiles,

but instead, I walked into a nightmare—my two sons, Tommy and Alex, were asleep on the cold hallway floor, tangled in blankets and covered in dirt.

My heart raced as I flicked on the light, unsure whether to scream or cry. Where was Mark? The house looked like it had been hit by a snack-fueled

tornado—pizza boxes, soda cans, and melted ice cream everywhere. No sign of my husband. I crept through the mess toward our bedroom. Empty.

Then I heard faint noises from the boys’ room and slowly opened the door, bracing myself for the worst…

The sight that greeted me nearly made my head explode. Mark was sitting there with headphones on, lost in a video game, surrounded by energy drinks

and junk food, completely oblivious to the chaos around him. The boys’ room had been turned into a neon-lit gamer cave—TV, LED lights,

even a mini-fridge. My rage boiled over. After a screaming match and dragging the boys into bed myself, I decided enough was enough.

The next morning, I began my revenge—with a chore chart, bedtime stories, dinosaur-shaped sandwiches, and a strict 9 PM screen-time rule.

For a week, I treated Mark like the child he was acting like—plastic plates, sippy cups, and all. But it wasn’t until I called in the big guns—his

mom—that he finally cracked. Seeing his mother storm through the door and scold him like a teenager was the final blow. Humbled and red-faced,

Mark apologized. And while I accepted it, I made one thing clear: the boys need a dad, not a roommate with a controller. Lesson learned… for now.