Chapter 3: The Brat, the Saint, and the Scandal

The two little troublemakers raising hell in the living room are Natalie’s twin sons.

It was chaos: the sofa cushions became a fort, a pile of Hot Wheels cars skidded beneath the coffee table, and a framed photo of Natalie (in full Oscar-mode) threatened to slide off the mantel with every thump.

Only, one of them is now my son—Ethan, on the show.

I glanced at Ethan, who clung to his dinosaur plush like it was a life raft. He looked up with those big, dark eyes, silently pleading for a break from the madness.

Ethan and Tyler are fraternal twins. They don’t look much alike, but both are ridiculously cute and handsome.

Ethan had a mop of tousled brown hair, and Tyler’s was a little darker, always styled with some leftover syrup or jelly. Even the local Girl Scout troop would’ve voted them Most Likely To Get Free Ice Cream.

But their personalities? Night and day.

Ethan is the type who lines up his crayons by color. Tyler? He uses them to draw on the walls. There’s no middle ground here.

Ethan is obedient and sensible.

The kind of kid teachers wish they had a whole classroom of. He even apologized to a plant once for knocking off a leaf.

Tyler is a wild little T-Rex, so bratty even dogs would shake their heads.

He had that feral sparkle in his eyes—the sort of energy you only see in toddlers who’ve just discovered the sugar stash. Our neighbor’s beagle flat-out refused to enter the house if Tyler was around.

Today’s fight started because Tyler snatched Ethan’s toy and toppled his block tower. That kicked off the chaos.

A classic case of toy-jacking, then destruction. I could’ve written a parenting blog on "How Not To Handle Sharing."

Tyler is a whole size chunkier than Ethan, and his pudgy claws left a scratch on Ethan’s arm. Now Ethan is squatting by the coffee table, pouting and glaring at him with teary eyes.

Ethan sniffled, trying not to cry. He pressed a Spiderman Band-Aid onto his arm, blinking hard, like he was fighting not to cry on national TV.

Tyler, meanwhile, is hugging the toy, bawling and cursing at the same time, completely unreasonable.

He alternated between sobbing and yelling about his "rights," which sounded suspiciously like something he’d heard on TV. The neighbors probably heard every word.

This is what a max-level brat looks like.

I’d seen plenty of tantrums, but Tyler was working on an Olympic-level gold medal performance.

Damn, just looking at him makes my blood boil.

I rolled my sleeves and muttered a silent prayer for patience—or at least decent health insurance.

I sprang up from the floor and strode over.

The hardwood creaked beneath me, and the kids both froze like deer in headlights. I could almost hear the theme music from an old Western showdown.

As I moved, Ethan’s little body shrank back, his pale, aggrieved face full of disappointment.

The guilt hit me in the chest. I wanted to tell him, "Kid, I’m new here too," but all I could do was offer a shaky smile.

Tyler puffed out his chest, looking smug, convinced I’d take his side.

He practically dared me with his eyes. I could see the wheels turning: "Let’s see what you’ve got, old man."

Too bad for him.

That would’ve been me before my awakening.

I’d spent enough time as a pushover. Not anymore.

Now, I’m Stepdad Supreme.

No more doormat. I straightened up and let the cameras catch my best dad-glare.

Ignore my own good kid to suck up to the brat who only likes the male lead? What am I, brain-damaged?

The thought alone made me snort. If I needed validation, I’d just ask Ethan to draw me a sticker chart.

I snatched the toy from Tyler’s hand, stuffed it back into Ethan’s arms, and smiled gently: “Don’t cry, buddy, Dad got your toy back for you.”

I even gave Ethan a little wink, hoping he’d see that I was in his corner now. He blinked, unsure, then hugged the toy to his chest like it was a shield. For the first time, I saw a flicker of trust.

Then I turned to Tyler, face stern: “Try stealing my son’s toy again and see what happens. If your mom won’t teach you, I will.”

I folded my arms, giving him the kind of dad-voice you can hear across a Walmart parking lot. A hush fell over the living room, even the TV seemed to quiet down.

Tyler stared at me, dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

For a second, he was all wide eyes and gaping jaw, like I’d just announced the WiFi was gone forever.

Then he burst into tears, rushed over, and grabbed my pants, yelling:

“You dare take my toy! I’m telling Mom! She’ll never talk to you again!”

He clung to my leg like a barnacle, wailing for backup. His tears were more dramatic than a daytime soap, and I half-expected him to faint on the spot.