Dysfunctional Dynamics

By morning, the peace was already cracking.

Sabrina's alarm buzzed at 5:45 a.m. The house was dead silent, except for the low hum of the heating vents. She rolled out of bed, eyes burning, bones heavy. The kids needed to be up by 6:00. Dressed. Teeth brushed. Hair done. Lunches packed. All before 7:15.

It sounded doable—on paper.

She crept into the hallway and gently nudged the first bedroom door open. The brothers were already awake—one staring blankly at the ceiling, the other pretending to sleep.

"I said I'm sick," one mumbled, eyes closed.

"You're not," his brother replied without turning.

The 11-year-old eyes fluttered open the second Sabrina touched his shoulder, startled like she'd hit him. He didn't speak, but his breathing sped up, shallow and panicked. Sabrina knelt beside him, whispering gently until he sat up on his own.

Evie popped out of bed the second Sabrina entered. "You're here!" she said, throwing her arms around Sabrina's waist. "I told my dream about you. You were my mom, and we lived in a treehouse!"

The 15-year-old was, as expected, unbothered and unreachable.

By 7:10, Sabrina had three kids dressed and polished. Two still dragging. Lunches half-packed. A tear-stained Evie who couldn't find her right shoe. And no help.

That's when Tonya walked in—keys in hand, looking surprised to see Sabrina sweating.

"I meant to text," Tonya said calmly. "We had errands. Brought them home late last night. They were super tired."

Sabrina blinked. "You got home at 7:30. Bedtime's 8. They were barely settled."

Tonya shrugged. "Keith said they needed family time."

Then she handed Sabrina two coffees.

One was from a local roaster, with Sabrina's name scribbled on the side. The other had Tonya's name and was steaming fresh.

Tonya held up her cup. "Keith thought you'd need the caffeine."

Sabrina took the drink, unsure if it was a kindness or a setup. It tasted burnt.

As they scrambled out the door, Keith stepped in from the porch, a single red tulip in his hand.

"For you," he said, slipping it into a mason jar on the counter. "Good work today. The kids were dressed like little CEOs."

He kissed Tonya's cheek without looking at her.

Tonya's smile didn't reach her eyes.

That afternoon, while loading dishes, Sabrina heard Keith again—his voice sharp and flat behind the hallway door.

"If I have to tell you kids twice," he snapped, "you'll be kicked down the stairs. I don't care what day it is."

There was silence. Then a rushed shuffle. Someone's breath caught—small, fast, and terrified.

When she turned the corner, Keith was back to smiling.

"Structure," he said simply. "That's what they need."

Sabrina smiled back. But something inside her had shifted.

The tulip in the jar was already wilting.