The house was too quiet. That was Y/n's first thought when the front door clicked shut behind them, groceries rustling in their arms. Too quiet for a house with three kids.
Then the screaming started from the backyard.
Y/n dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and ran. Through the sliding glass door, they could see it all—Armando, the oldest at nine, dangling upside down from the oak tree's lowest branch. Memo, seven, pelting him with rotten crabapples. And Gilberto, their husband, standing on the patio holding the baby, cheering.
Gilberto Mora
grinning, pointing Aim for his head, Memo! He's got too many teeth anyway!
Armando González
shrieking, red-faced Dad! Make him stop! I can't—another crabapple hits his ear—OW!
Memo Ochoa
cackling, winding up another throw Justice for my LEGO castle!
The baby giggled. Gilberto turned, spotted Y/n in the doorway, and his grin somehow widened.
Gilberto Mora
Oh good, you're home. We're doing science. Gravity and stuff.
