𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖨 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝗒𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿. 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾. 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

The cigarette's ashes drip near Evelyn's curled toes, and grey smoke wafts from her nostrils. Sitting on the toilet, she stares at her reflection in the mirror above the sink.

Her once voluminous and radiant golden hair now hangs in clumped strings of bronze blonde.

After having her fourth child the week before, hygiene became a chore, like finally cleaning the stack of dishes in her sink or picking up toys around the house.

Her twin girls wail at the top of their lungs over something she's sure will be as trivial as always. Evelyn squeezes her eyes shut and the little cigarette between two fingers.

Her husband was supposed to spend his parental leave with her, but every morning she'd wake up to the cacophony of whines and cries, and he'd be nowhere in sight.

She'd finally get them to sleep at night after running around -- chasing one, then the other -- then he'd arrive reeking of booze and as boisterous as spectators in a stadium.

"Mommy," her son calls out from her room. Evelyn opens her eyes to stare at the light pouring in from the bottom of the door.

She watches his shadow lurch closer through a weary gaze. He repeats her name like a mantra, then drops to his hands and knees. Her son wedges his tiny fingers under the door, and Evelyn flares her nostrils.

"What -- Cole?" She pauses before saying his name to correct her sharp tone. He's a year younger than his sisters, but at three years old, he's much more advanced than they were. He's more advanced than his father and mother were at that age.

"Lulu and Feebee won't gimme my toy," he says, whining and splaying his fingertips on the tile floor. Evelyn glances at the Paw Patrol bandage around his index from when Phoebe and Louisa slammed his finger in the car door.

"I'll go get it in a second. Mommy's using the restroom." She stands with the waistband of her pajama shorts and panties in her hands, then shimmies them over her wide hips of stretch marks and discoloration.

"Okay. Mommy?" Dropping the cigarette into the toilet, she rolls her eyes onto the ceiling. She didn't think she'd ever hate being called or vied for until she had Cole. When she asks what he wants, he tells her, "I'm hungry," and from there she's unable to control her tone.

"I'll be out in a second, Cole," she all but yells, leaning over and slamming the flusher. Her bathroom became her place for respite after birthing the twins.

They were out of sync in just about everything, from feeding times to sleep cycles, and without help, it quickly became overwhelming.

"Okay. Adam's crying." Evelyn reaches the sink and grips the basin to remain upright and calm. Through gnashed teeth and with a bowed head, she tells him that she knows.

Cole's fingers retreat, and he pushes himself to his feet. Evelyn watches his shadow disappear, then shuts her eyes. 

She counts her breaths, savoring each one in preparation for becoming suffocated by her cluttered home and rowdy children.

***

A saucepan of water rumbles on the stove. Bubbles and foam rattle the lid, popping and spilling down the sides.

With her newborn cradled in her arm -- wailing though he's beet red -- she twists shut his bottle of formula and warm water perched on the island with the other hand.

"Mommy," Phoebe whines, tossing back her head of chestnut curls. She straightens her neck. "I'm hungry."

"I know. I'm making your oatmeal right now," Evelyn tells her and, just as quickly, Phoebe grumbles about not seeing anything.

Cole plants his palms on the coffee table of magazines, coasters, and television remotes. He lifts his leg on the surface and pushes himself up onto his knees.

"Mommy, Adam's crying." Evelyn has to bite her tongue to avoid lashing out. A slow, creeping pressure coils around the circumference of her head like a snake tightening its grip on its prey.

With her husband away, she's left to feed and drive her children to daycare. Ms. Rachel's melodic voice blares from the television, but only Cole gives her his undivided attention.

Phoebe sits her elbows on the surface of her highchair and rests her chin in her palms. Louisa swings her feet while humming something her mother doesn't understand. Her dry cheerios scratch the white surface as she drags around the grain loops.

Evelyn shakes the bottle with her thumb sealing the nipple, rocking her colicky son and shushing him.

She takes a step to the right and glances toward the open living room.

"Cole, get down." He ignores her calm command, pretending to be fixated on Ms. Rachel singing nursery rhymes. He sits on his heels with an unblinking gaze.

Phoebe groans while tossing her head back again and dropping her arms onto her highchair. She chants, "Hungry," while rhythmically banging her palms on the surface.

Evelyn quells her son with his bottle in his mouth. As his wrinkled face relaxes, she turns to her daughters and merely stares at them. She feels a fog sweeping across her brain and engulfing it in silence, then her temples pulsating faster and faster.

The rectangular coffee table rattles under Cole as he shifts his weight from one knee to the other. 

The cheerio frisbees off Louisa's highchair and she watches it land on the floor beside her. Phoebe, though noticing her mother's tired face shift to malice, doesn't relent.

Pointing at the cereal, throwing her head back, and thrashing her legs, Louisa joins her sister with a conniption fit of her own.

Magazines spill off the coffee table. The coasters fall to a clunk followed by the remotes.

"Cole," she says, "Get -- off -- the table."

Their voices feebly attempt to drown hers out, but all it does is make her stomach drop. Her fingers twitch around the bottle and her son as she watches the other one defy her.

As her heart ramps up, so does her breathing and it all culminates into one outburst she's never had before.

"Cole, get down!"

Her aggression quiets her daughters. It makes her sons flinch with wide eyes. Cole slips over the side with a gasp, and his head bangs against the edge of the table.

Evelyn stares with a look of I told you so. For the first time since the night before, they're collectively silent. The fog clears and she heaves a breath that loosens her tense shoulders.

Then they erupt into a domino effect of various cries. The face scrunching, lip quivering, and limp-bodied ones she's grown to hate.

A trail of red glides down the bridge of Cole's nose from his forehead. It collects on his lip philtrum before trickling onto his shirt.

Her heart pounds with a rush of anger and sadness that brings tears to her eyes and makes her hands shake.

"Terri is calling," her AI assistant chirps from the TV stand. Her gaze flicks to the white globe with a pulsing blue ring-light. Evelyn yells for it to answer and the desperation for help seeps from her voice. It doesn't cease even after her sister enters the call from her vehicle.

"Terri, I need you," she chokes out before her oldest sister can greet her, her voice hoarse and unsteady.

Tears well and run down her face. When asked what's wrong, she explains everything from Levi not supporting her with their children to the toddlers acting out.

Terri grumbles obscenities. She's despised her sister's husband since the day he was introduced to the family. He was uncouth, ill-tempered, and unreliable.

He left trash lying around, parked slightly on their grass, and clogged their toilet with handfuls of tissue. When she was pregnant with the twins, he never helped her around the house, nor was he willingly present for their birth.

Terri urged her little sister to divorce him, but Evelyn held a false belief that he'd change.

Now she realizes it'll never happen.

"I'll be there in a bit. I'm not too far from your apartment." Evelyn exhales and it chills her teeth. Her children stare at her with sodden faces and agape mouths.

***

After she buzzed her sister up the tower and let her in, she felt shackles loosen around her limbs. The ball and chain didn't slip off until she showered for the first time in three days, changed into warm loose-fitting clothes, and left with her Nissan.

In the beginning, she drove around aimlessly, haunted by the sound of their wails that she thought was a permanent memory -- a scar.

Then she found a Sonic restaurant a few minutes from her apartment. She sat at the carhop service and stared at the menu. Her diet consisted of half a plate of whatever she managed to cook that her stomach would either reject immediately or would go cold after the kids needed her attention.

She settled on a vanilla milkshake with whipped cream and nuts.

It took one sip to put her at ease. The creamy texture sat on her tongue and chilled her mouth like ice straight from the freezer. All she could do was lay her head back and sigh through her nose.

It was like medicine the way it calmed her aching head. It brought her to a time when she was free from motherhood.

She started to regret having her children and that regret turned to seething rage at her husband's neglect. She hated him for pushing her to a point where she might've abandoned them completely or done something unthinkable.

She needed just a second away. A second to herself. No sticky fingers clawing under the door, no falling off furniture. No colicky newborns or impatient toddlers.

It was enough for her to come to her senses and plan an intervention with her husband -- an ultimatum: help with the children as a husband or co-parent as a divorcee.

She finished her drink and set the cup in the holder. She wiped her face and straightened her posture.

That night, Evelyn vowed to confront him not as an overwhelmed wife but as a mother drawing the line.