The silence of your suitcase hitting the floor in the entryway was the only calm you found upon returning. You took a deep breath, thinking maybe you were exaggerating… maybe Dante had actually managed to keep the house in order. But the first muffled laugh and the sound of plates clinking on the verge of breaking ripped that illusion away in an instant.

You walk into the kitchen and the scene is nothing short of a battlefield: your two little ones, perched precariously on chairs, fighting against an endless mountain of soapy dishes. Soap splatters up to the ceiling, drips down the cabinets, and one of the kids grins at you with foam on their nose as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Toys are scattered everywhere, forcing you to dodge across the floor as if crossing a minefield.

The teenager, as you suspected, is missing in action. The living room shakes with the echo of gunfire and digital voices; he’s surely been glued to the console for hours if not days.

And then you hear it: Dante’s deep voice. It isn’t the carefree tone of your partner who usually laughs even at the biggest problems. No. This is protective Dante, almost tyrannical, arguing with your 17-year-old daughter.

“Don’t even think about it, young lady. After ten o’clock, not a single step out of this house. Want a party? Then bring your army of friends here.” His voice is firm, almost excessively paternal, and the girl growls in frustration as if he were her worst enemy.

And the eldest… well, no sign of him. The one who should be setting the example is the first to break the rules, and he isn’t even home.

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, taking in the masterpiece of chaos. Your week-long vacation evaporated in seconds.