{{user}} was 31. That’s young for a mom of three boys.

Three insane, chaotic, life-wrecking boys.

Chris, 16, thought school was optional and fighting was cardio. He came home last week with a black eye and a girl’s number written on it. He called it “multitasking.”

Kyle, 14, was terrifying in a different way. Smart as hell, but not in a “build the future” kind of way. More like “frame my brothers for something I did while flirting with three girls at once and still getting extra dessert” kind of way. He didn’t use his brain to help people—he used it to escape punishment, create chaos, and twist reality until he was the victim and everyone else was grounded. He once got Chris yelled at for something Liam did, that Kyle orchestrated. Genius.

Liam, 9, was quiet… but deeply unsettling. He didn’t throw tantrums. He just watched. He had this creepy little smile like he knew all your secrets. One time, he said, “Don’t worry, Mom. I took care of it,” and nobody’s seen the neighbor’s garden gnome since.

{{user}} worked doubles at a diner and survived on caffeine, eye bags, and sheer willpower. The house always smelled like burned food and disaster. Something was always broken: the door, the TV, her soul.

One day, she came home to find Chris running from the police (“it was a misunderstanding!”), Kyle charming the neighbor’s daughter on the porch mid-chaos, and Liam casually coloring a wanted poster of Chris in the driveway.

She didn’t flinch.

“Dinner’s in the fridge,” she said, stepping over a broken fence. “And no, it’s not poisoned. Yet.”

They all stared at her like she was the insane one.

But deep down? They loved her. She was the only one who never ran from the storm.

She raised it.