I left my husband with the kids for one week. When I returned, my sons were asleep on the dirty hallway floor.

Panicked, I searched the house. No fire. No flood. Just chaos. In the boys’ room, I found Mark gaming in a neon-lit cave of energy drinks, trash, and a giant TV.

He shrugged. “They liked the adventure.”

I lost it.

“Adventure? They’re not camping! They’re sleeping on filth while you play games!”

He rolled his eyes. “Relax. I fed them.”

With pizza and ice cream?

That night, I decided: if he wanted to act like a child, I’d treat him like one.

The next morning, he got a Mickey Mouse pancake and a sippy cup of coffee. His chores were posted on a gold-star chart. Screens off by 9. Timeouts for tantrums. I even read him “Goodnight Moon.”

He cracked in a week.

Then I dropped the hammer.

“I called your mom.”

His face drained. She arrived like a storm. “Mark! Floor? Really?”

He crumbled. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I was selfish. I’ll change.”

I smiled. “Good. Fathers lead, they don’t lounge. Now, go help your mom with the dishes. You might earn ice cream.”

And just like that, balance returned—with a timeout corner, just in case.