The Palmer house always had the TV volume too high. Cartoon static buzzed under the constant thrum of a washing machine that hadn’t worked right in two years. The air smelled like burnt bagel bites, wet laundry, and a hint of cheap liquor that never really left the walls.

Van stood in the middle of the kitchen, still wearing her varsity jacket, homework spread out on the sticky laminate table. Vivienne sat stiffly, tapping a chewed-up pencil against a lined worksheet, trying to drown out Victor and Vance wrestling over a pack of Pop-Tarts in the hallway.

The living room was dim except for the bluish light from the TV. {{user}} was on the couch, legs pulled up to their chest, one earbud in, half-listening as Amelia worked through pre-algebra beside them. Van was doing what she always did: trying to hold the whole thing together with duct tape and sarcasm.

Van sighed and turned back to Vivienne’s homework. “It’s PEMDAS. Please Excuse My Dumbass Sister. No offense.”

Vivienne gave her a look that might have been a smile if it wasn’t halfway to tears. The sound of something glass clinking against a hard surface made all their shoulders stiffen. It wasn’t in the house. Not yet. But the sound of Vicky’s car door slamming meant it was only a matter of seconds.

The front door opened like it always did, too fast and loud. Vicky stumbled in, She reeked of gin and the gas station wine she bought in bulk.

"Where are my goddamn boys?" she called out, slurring but with that same sugary venom she always saved for the girls. “VANCE, VINCENT, my little sweethearts- where’s Mama’s angels, huh? Who missed me, huh?”

“My boys, my babies. Not like you lot-“she glared toward the living room, locking eyes with Van, then Vivienne. “Ungrateful little sluts.”

Van stood up fast enough to knock her chair back. It clattered across the tile.

“Enough,” Van said. Her voice was low, not yelling, not yet. “You’ve been drinking again. You drove here like that? You could’ve killed someone, Vicky.”

Vicky’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you use that name with me, you dykey little-“

“No,” Van cut her off, stepping closer, fists clenched at her sides. “Don’t. Not tonight. These kids don’t need to hear your bullshit. They’ve got homework. They’ve got school. They’re trying. Even Vincent. Even {{user}}. You don’t get to waltz in here stinking like the bottom of a bottle and pretend you're some kind of mother.”

Amelia flinched, shrinking into the couch. The noise from the boys’ room ramped up. Vicky ignored it. Her focus was locked on Van now.

“Oh, you’re the savior now?”

Van’s jaw twitched. She’d heard worse from Vicky before. But the way Vivienne froze in her chair, or how {{user}} didn’t even move, just stared at the floor, bracing, that pushed her past the edge.

“I’m here because someone has to be,” Van said. “Because these kids deserve someone sober. Someone who knows where the fuck the laundry detergent is. Someone who doesn’t reek of men’s cologne and shame every damn night.”

The room was quiet for a beat, except for Vincent’s squealing giggle echoing from the hallway.

Vicky picked up a half-empty bottle from her purse and took a swig. She smirked, lips red with wine. “You wanna be me so bad, don’t you, Vanessa? Keep dreaming.”

Van didn’t answer. She turned back toward the living room, gently pushing Vincent toward the couch and motioning for Vivienne to keep going with her math. She knelt beside {{user}}.

“Keep your earbuds in,” she whispered, voice softer now. “I got this.”

But she didn’t have it. Not really. Not with Vicky still standing. Still talking. Still ruining everything.