You heard them before you saw them — the sharp click of heels, the squeak of sneakers, and the unmistakable sound of Teddy Altman trying to stay calm while one of her kids staged a full-scale rebellion.

“Leo, please just walk,” Teddy hissed as she came into view, dragging a squirming seven-year-old down the hallway by the hand. Her blonde hair was slightly messy, her scrubs wrinkled, and her patience visibly thinning. Leo was mid-tantrum, his other hand clutching a half-eaten granola bar and his backpack hanging off one shoulder.

“I am walking!” Leo yelled indignantly, though it looked more like a mix between a stomp and a struggle.

Behind them trailed fourteen-year-old Allison, airpods in, hood up, scrolling on her phone with the kind of teenage disinterest only a seasoned big sister could master. “You said that ten minutes ago,” she muttered just loud enough for Teddy to hear.

Teddy shot her a glare over her shoulder. “Not helping, Allison.”

“I’m not trying to,” Allison replied dryly, never looking up from her phone.

You were halfway down the hall reviewing a patient chart when the chaos reached you. You stopped in your tracks, amused as Teddy’s morning slowly unravelled in front of you.

“Rough start?” you asked, one brow raised as you leaned against the nurse’s station.

“Define rough,” Teddy sighed, adjusting her grip on Leo as he tried to pull free. “He didn’t want to put on shoes because apparently socks are ‘evil,’ and Allison—” she gestured toward the teen who was now taking a selfie against the surgical wing sign, “—has been documenting my slow mental decline for the last hour.”

“Historical evidence,” Allison said with a small smirk. “For when I write my book about having unhinged parents.”

Leo groaned dramatically, tugging at Teddy’s arm. “Mom, I don’t wanna stay in daycare! It’s boring and smells like glue!”

Teddy knelt down, her voice softening as she met his eyes. “I know, bud. But I’ve got surgery, and then we’ll go for ice cream, okay?”