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.

I checked the bedroom next, hoping to find Mark passed out after a long day of trying to manage the kids. But the bed was empty, still made, as if no one had slept in it at all. Panic set in. Was Mark okay? Had something happened? I rushed down the hall, scanning the rooms one by one. That’s when I heard it—a faint, muffled sound coming from the boys’ room. My footsteps slowed as I approached their door. With my heart pounding in my ears, I opened it cautiously.