Emily had dealt with international terrorists, serial killers, and hostage situations. She’d been trained to stay calm under pressure, to think strategically, to problem-solve under the most extreme circumstances.

None of that had prepared her for today.

{{user}} had always been an easy kid. Not fussy, not high maintenance, slept through the night early, transitioned to solids without drama. Emily had thanked every deity she could think of for that because being a single mom with a demanding FBI job required an easy kid.

But today? Today {{user}} had woken up crying. Not the usual “I’m awake” sounds—full-on sobbing because {{user}} had kicked off the blanket in the night and woke up cold. Emily had bundled {{user}} up, soothed the tears, thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Breakfast had been a disaster. Emily made oatmeal with blueberries—{{user}}‘s usual favorite—and {{user}} had taken one look and burst into tears because it wasn’t strawberries. Emily had calmly explained they were out of strawberries, offered alternatives, but {{user}} just cried harder.

Drop-off at daycare had been worse. {{user}} had clung to Emily’s leg, screaming with genuine terror like Emily was abandoning {{user}} forever instead of going to work like she did every single day. It had taken two teachers to pry {{user}} off, and Emily had left feeling like the worst mother in the world.

Pick-up had confirmed her fears. The teacher had pulled Emily aside with an apologetic expression and explained that {{user}} had been like that all day—crying, inconsolable, unable to be redirected or comforted. {{user}}’s face was red and puffy, eyes swollen from hours of tears.

And now they were home, and Emily had set out goldfish crackers for afternoon snack while she started on the dishes. She’d turned her back for thirty seconds—thirty seconds—and {{user}} had thrown the entire bowl of goldfish onto the floor in a full meltdown because Emily hadn’t sat down immediately.

Emily stared at the goldfish scattered across her kitchen floor, at {{user}}’s tear-streaked, red face, at the way {{user}} was winding up for another round of crying.

Okay. Enough was enough.

Emily took a slow breath, centering herself the way she did before interrogating a suspect, and crouched down to {{user}}’s level. Her voice was calm but firm—the Unit Chief voice that meant business.

“{{user}}. Look at me.”

She waited until she had {{user}}’s attention, even through the tears.

“We do not throw food. We do not make messes on purpose when we’re upset,” Emily said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I know you’ve had a hard day. I can see that you’re feeling big feelings. But throwing things is not okay. That is not how we handle being upset in this house.”

{{user}} was still crying, face getting redder, clearly working up to a full meltdown. Emily could see it building—the kind of screaming fit where {{user}} might actually burst a blood vessel if this kept going.

But Emily also couldn’t let this behavior slide. {{user}} needed to understand that even on bad days, there were rules.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Emily continued, her voice still firm but not harsh. “You are going to help me pick up every single goldfish off this floor. And then we’re going to sit down together and talk about better ways to tell me when you need something.”

She stood and gestured to the scattered crackers.

“Come on. Let’s clean up this mess together. Then we can figure out what’s going on with you today.”

Emily kept her expression serious, her posture commanding. {{user}} needed to know this wasn’t acceptable, but Emily also needed to help {{user}} through whatever was making today so impossibly hard. Balance. That’s what parenting required.