After a week-long work trip, I came home late and expected my kids to be asleep in bed. Instead, I found Tommy and Alex bundled in blankets, sleeping on the cold hallway floor, dirty and exhausted. The house was a disaster zone, and my husband, Mark, was nowhere in sight—until I opened the boys’ bedroom door.

He’d turned it into his personal gamer cave—LED lights, a giant TV, snacks everywhere, and Mark deep in a video game. When I confronted him, he shrugged. “They thought it was fun! Like camping!” Camping? On a hardwood floor? I didn’t yell. I planned.

The next morning, I served him Mickey Mouse pancakes on a kiddie plate with a sippy cup. Then I handed him a chore chart and enforced bedtime, screen time, and Wi-Fi limits—for him. When he threw a tantrum, I put him in timeout. And just to drive the point home? I called his mom.

She showed up furious. Mark turned redder than a tomato and finally apologized. “I was selfish,” he admitted. I forgave him—but made one thing clear: our sons need a father, not a fourth child. And if he ever forgets that again, the chore chart’s still on the fridge.