"I know. I'll handle him."
That was what Roy always said.
The problem was that handling Tyler usually meant protecting him from consequences.
For the first three days, Tyler barely moved from our couch.
He slept until noon and played games on his phone.
He left dishes beside the sink and ate food I had planned for the children.
When I asked him to rinse his plate, he said, "I'll do it later."
Later never came.
He ignored our rule about keeping the front door locked.
He left wet towels on the bathroom floor.
He played videos loudly after the children were asleep and rolled his eyes when I asked him to turn them down.
Roy tried to talk to him.
Tyler would say, "Yeah, okay," then return to his phone.
By Tuesday, I had stopped seeing him as an 18-year-old who had made mistakes.
I saw him as another child I had been forced to manage.
Yesterday afternoon, I reached my breaking point.
I had planned to take Emma and Noah to the supermarket, but Noah refused to wear shoes.
Emma was tired and crying because I had cut her banana "the wrong way."
I opened the refrigerator and realized we had no milk, no vegetables, and nothing I could make for dinner.
The supermarket was only a few minutes away.
However, taking two exhausted toddlers through crowded aisles felt impossible.
Tyler was lying on the couch watching a video.
I stood in the doorway for almost a full minute before speaking.
"Tyler, can you watch the kids for 30 minutes?"
He glanced up.
