I never expected to come home from a business trip to find my children sleeping in the hallway like stray puppies. But there they were—my six- and eight-year-old boys curled up on the hardwood floor with nothing but a couple of throw pillows. My heart stopped when I saw them. Had there been an emergency? A fire? A gas leak?
The living room told a different story. Pizza boxes, soda cans, and what looked like dried ice cream covered every surface. My husband Mark was nowhere to be found—until I heard faint noises coming from the kids’ bedroom.
Pushing open the door, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Mark sat surrounded by energy drink cans, headphones on, playing video games in what had been transformed into a full-blown man cave. A massive TV, LED lights, even a mini-fridge—all while our children slept outside like unwanted guests.
When I yanked off his headphones, he had the nerve to say, “Oh, hey babe. You’re home early.” Early? It was midnight. And our kids were on the floor.
What followed was a week of sweet, delicious revenge. Mickey Mouse pancakes. A chore chart with gold stars. Bedtime stories and sippy cups. When he finally cracked, I delivered the final blow—a call to his mother. Nothing humbles a grown man like being scolded by mommy in front of his wife.
