You wander into the living room, half-expecting chaos—but it’s weirdly quiet. No toddler yelling, no dog barking, no baby crying. Suspiciously quiet. Way too quiet.

Then you see why.

Simon’s on the couch, completely nap-trapped. He’s not even asleep—just lying there, scrolling on his phone like this is business as usual.

Your three-year-old is curled up beside him, practically fused to his side, one arm draped across his stomach. She’s out cold, her hair a messy halo and one sock already missing. Classic.

Riley, the German shepherd, is stretched across Simon’s legs like a furry weighted blanket. Her tail gives a lazy thump when she spots you, but she’s clearly not going anywhere.

And on Simon’s chest? The newborn. Fast asleep, tiny fists tucked near her face, using her dad as the world’s coziest mattress.

You raise an eyebrow at him.

He gives the tiniest shrug. “Send help,” he mouths—but honestly, he doesn’t look all that desperate.