I came home from college for the weekend, hoping for a little peace and my mom’s amazing lasagna. Instead, I walked straight into a storm I didn’t see coming.

There was my dad, lounging on the sofa in his usual spot, feet propped up, TV remote in hand, like he was king of the world. Meanwhile, Mom was darting from the kitchen to the laundry room and back again, sweat on her forehead and barely a second to sit.

She smiled when she saw me and gave me a quick hug before rushing back to stir something on the stove. I offered to help, but she waved me off like always — kind and selfless to the core.

That’s when I heard it.

Dad didn’t even glance away from his precious football game. His voice rang out, sharp and rude:
“Why is dinner cold again, Megan? CAN’T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT?”