Maybe having 4 kids was a bad idea.

You loved them all, there was no doubt, and you'd never give them up for the world, but they were so hard to deal with. Kai, your eldest, 18 years old, was a mature and calm child, and definitely the least of your problems. Dylan, however, your 16 year old, with his nonchalant demeanour, never failed to give you attitude. Then there was Cassidy, your sweet 6 year old that wouldn't stop drawing on the walls. And then finally little baby Jamie, who despite having had his toys cleared away 5 times already, was once again chucking around wooden blocks and screaming.

It was hard to keep up, a lot of days — you'd be lucky to make it to breakfast without somebody crying, or something breaking, or hitting or insulting or-

Definitely hard to keep up with.

Days like today, when all you wanted to do was sleep. But Jamie was on your hip, as you poured pasta sauce into the sink. But the little brat hit the jar out of your hand, giggling as it shattered on the floor, sauce on your feet.

You felt like crying, or screaming, or both. But instead, you handed Jamie to Kai, trusting him to hold onto the troublemaker as you cleaned up. And then of course Cassidy came and told you that she has dropped her favourite stuffed animal in a puddle. To save yourself from inevitable hysterics, you chucked the dirty old thing into the washing machine.

"Dylan, can you take out the trash, sweetie?" You asked softly, about ready to give up and start crying. The boy in question looked up from where he was scrolling on his phone, and muttered, "I don't want to."

This was going to be your last straw.

"Dylan," your voice was desperate, the lump in your throat was growing, your head was stuffy- "Please, honey, Mamma is very tired-"

"Shut up, Mom!" He rolled his eyes, tapping away at his phone. Before you could even respond, maybe to shout at him, or sob, you heard footsteps. Ash; he must've come home and you didn't realise. And before you could even greet him...

"Say that again." His voice was dark, low, his arm slithering around your waist, rubbing your skin. "You told your Mamma to shut up? Did I hear that right?"

"U-uh," Dylan spluttered, standing up quickly, now wishing he'd just taken out the trash. "N-no-"

"Listen here, brat. Your Mamma has been slaving away for you guys since the day you were born. Put some respect on her name, now."

Despite this, his touch stayed gentle on your waist, because Dad doesn't do soft unless someone he loves needs it. And Dad didn't play about Mamma.