Saturday morning dawned gray and cold. Lynn Loud Sr. met it with a sigh. Next to him, his wife of eighteen years was curled up on her side, facing away from him, her back gently rising and falling. Last night, when she came to bed, she attacked him with kisses and soft touches. He didn't have it in him to fight back, so he allowed her to mount him and sheath him between her folds, her nightgown pushed up past her hips. She rocked back and forth, her breaths coming in hot gasps and her blonde bangs hanging limply over her eyes. He stared at the ceiling, hating himself for giving into her like he always did. After her actions that day, the last place he wanted her was on top of him. God help him, the second-to-last was in bed beside him.

It was hard to love her when she was like this, but she was his wife, the only woman he had ever loved, and nearly two decades ago he vowed to honor and cherish her no matter what...in sickness and in health. He could handle her at her worst, that wasn't the problem; it was the kids and how it affected them that worried him. When she was like this, he went out of his way to avoid angering or confronting her, because it would only make matters worse. Sometimes, that wasn't enough, though; she sought trouble and she found it.

Lynn hated her moods, and had urged her in the past to see a doctor. She always blew it off while promising that it wouldn't happen again, but it always did, and over the past year, it had been getting progressively worse. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was wrong. What if it wasn't post-partum? What if it was something else? Something more...serious? He wasn't a doctor, so he could very easily be mistaken.

No, he thought; the prospect of his wife suffering from a severe mental illness was too terrible to contemplate.

Whatever it was, it was becoming insufferable. He couldn't decide which was worse: The cruelty with which she treated their daughters (your daughters, she had said yesterday), or the overbearing, almost obscene way she clung to Lincoln. He recalled the pleading in his son's eyes the previous afternoon as she held him hostage on the couch, and he sighed. He felt like a failure as both a man and a father. He was allowing his wife's condition to hurt his children. What could he do, though? He couldn't make her go to a doctor, and he doubted her condition was severe enough for involuntary committal. God, could he really do that though, pack his wife off to some godawful state run mental hospital where people talked to themselves and spun in circles? He tried to imagine her in one of those places, and his mind rebelled.

He hoped to God she was better today, because if she did anything out of the way, he wouldn't be able to sit by and let it happen, even if it meant a fight.

He hated fighting with Rita. He loved her and wanted to share peace and harmony with her. Unfortunately even in the best of marriages, that's not always possible.

Drawing a deep breath, he swung his legs out from under the covers and sat up. The digital face of the alarm clock on the nightstand said it was 7:09. Usually he and Rita would sleep until nine on a Saturday; the kids were all old enough to feed themselves, except for Lilly, but Lori or Luna usually took care of her so they could sleep. Such considerate children. How could Rita...?

She doesn't mean it, he cautioned himself. She's sick.

He ran trembling fingers through his thinning hair. A part of him wanted to crawl back under the covers and go back to sleep, where all of this would not matter, but he didn't think he could, so he got up, went into the master bath, and relieved himself. In the mirror over the sink, his eyes were red and dark bags hung beneath them. He brushed his teeth, shaved, then got into the shower, where he turned the water as hot as he could stand; some of his tension melted away and he allowed his mind to wander.

In the bedroom, Rita sat up and glanced over her shoulder. She could hear the shower running.

She reached between the mattress and the box spring and pulled out a wickedly sharp kitchen knife. She stared at her reflection in the gleaming blade as she turned it over in her hands. She kept it under the bed because one never knows when they might need something pointy and serrated, does one? Especially when one lives in a house full of rats intent on keeping her and the love of her life apart. She briefly considered walking into the bathroom, raising the knife, yanking back the shower curtain, and stabbing Lynn all over his flabby body, but deep down she knew that that would bring the police, and the police would take Lincoln away from her. If she killed Lynn and his slut daughters, how long would she have with her precious son before someone missed them and sent the police? Surely the weekend, then Monday, and maybe even Tuesday, but before long, someone would get suspicious.

But if they kept pushing her...

Sighing, she shoved the knife back into its hiding spot and stretched out on her back. She was wearing a silk nightgown that clung lovingly to her voluptuous figure. She would be thirty-eight in three months, and she had taken great pains to preserve her body, not that the daughters Lynn kept pumping into her helped much. She had stretch marks on her thighs and stomach, and no amount of cream would rid her of them.

What would Lincoln think when he saw her naked body? She could imagine his eyes widening as she slipped out of the nightgown and let it fall to her feet. She saw him licking his lips like a hungry dog, and laughed, her hand unconsciously creeping down the swell of her stomach and dipping between her legs. Her middle finger sank into her hole, and she threw her head back against the pillow. She added her index finger and dug her heels into the bed as she rubbed her silky walls. Last night, as she approached her climax, she came perilously close to crying her son's name. Holding it in was as difficult – and painful – as holding in a sneeze. Soon...soon she would scream his name so loud the walls would crash down around them.

Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln, fuck mommy...fuck mommy...

Her orgasm welled up quickly and crashed over her. She bit her bottom lip and grabbed a handful of the sheet as she rode it out, her hips bucking and her legs shaking. She giggled when she was done.

She didn't know how much longer she could wait.

She needed Lincoln inside of her so badly it ached; just sitting next to him on the couch yesterday, his body squished next to hers, made her so wet she could barely stand it. She finally let him go because if she didn't, she would mount him and make love to him right there. Not that Lynn had the balls to stop her. He might even enjoy watching...

Lincoln divided his attention between his plate and his mother; every time he tried to steal a glance at her, she caught him, because she stared at him unwaveringly, her lips arranged in a tiny Mona Lisa smile and her eyelids heavy. He couldn't say why, but the way she looked at him scared him...but also made his stomach flutter like it did when Ronnie Anne looked at him. He was thoroughly confused by the time breakfast was over. In his room, he pulled his shoes on and tied them. He checked his phone, and found he had a text from Ronnie Anne, which made his heart bounce. "We still on for the park?"

"Yes," he replied.

The previous afternoon, they made plans to hang out at the park. Lincoln intended to bring up his idea to crash the dance; he desperately hoped she went for it. The thought of dancing with Ronnie Anne, his hands on her hips and their eyes locked made him giddy with excitement. Maybe they could even kiss...

His phone buzzed, and he checked it. "Meet you there in a half hour."

"Okay," he texted with a smile.

Downstairs, he started for the door but his mother's voice stopped him. "Lincoln, honey, where are you going?"

"To the park," he said.

His mother's face fell. "Oh. I was hoping we could spend time together."

"We can later," he said quickly.

For a terrible moment he thought she was going to make him stay home, but she sighed. "Alright. Be home for lunch."

"Okay," he said with a smile, "thanks, Mom!"

When he was gone, Rita turned back to the TV, her chest aching. Why didn't he want to spend time with her? Why didn't he want to sit with her and let her stroke his cheek and maybe something else...?

Anger erupted in her. It was Lynn. He was trying to turn Lincoln against her.

She would not allow that.

Not at all.

Upstairs, Leni touched her chin with her forefinger. "Where are all my underwear?" she asked. She did her laundry yesterday after school, and it wasn't until now, when she went to fold it, that she realized none of her underwear had made it in, which was strange because she knew she put them all in the hamper. Hm. They didn't just walk away by themselves, but what could have happened to them?

Meanwhile, in the bathroom, Lori sat on the toilet lid, her arms wrapped around her nauseous stomach and a positive pregnancy test sitting on the edge of the sink...

Lincoln Loud guided the front tire of his bike into the rack and looked around for Ronnie Anne. It was a cold, blustery day, but the park was still full of activity: A group of people flew kites, while a bunch of teenagers tossed a Frisbee back and forth. He didn't see her, so he whipped out his phone and checked for a text, but there were none. It was 10:01. He was ten minutes early. He should have left the house later, but waiting around when a girl is involved isn't something an eleven-year-old boy is keen to do.

He went to put his phone in his pocket but it buzzed in his hand and he checked it.

A text.

From his mother.

"I love you."

For some reason, cold dread dropped into his stomach like a chunk of ice. He texted that he loved her too.

Another. "Don't let anyone say different. You mean the world to me." She followed that with a heart emoji.

"Hey, lame-o."

He jerked, nearly dropping his phone. Ronnie Anne parked her bike next to his and took her helmet off, letting her black hair spill down her shoulders. She was wearing jeans and a purple hoodie. She slipped a scrunchie off of her wrist and drew her hair back into a ponytail.

"Hey," he said, glancing down at his phone. He had three unread texts from his mother. He started to put his phone away, but decided he better read them. She might be mad if he didn't.

You are the light of my life.

You make mommy feel funny things.

Have fun. I love you so much.

His jaw dropped.

"I'm starting to think the park wasn't a good idea," Ronnie Anne said, flipping her hood up. "It's cold as shit out here."

"It's not so bad," he stammered, putting his phone away.

"Your face is red," she said. "You look like you're gonna freeze to death."

He was cold. "Eh. Tough guys don't worry about freezing to death."

Ronnie Anne chuckled. "Since when did you become a tough guy?"

"I've always been tough," he said.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed, and he most certainly did not feel tough. He pulled it out.

His mother sent him another emoji. This one a smiley face with hearts for eyes. What the hell?

"Who you talking to?" Ronnie asked.

"Uh...my mom," he said, shoving his phone back into his pocket. It buzzed again.

"Wow," Ronnie Anne said, lifting an eyebrow, "can you breathe? 'Cuz that apron string looks mighty tight."

A blush touched Lincoln's face. Did she think he was a mama's boy? He didn't want her to think that about him. "Nah, she's just...in a mood. We're arguing."

"Ah. Me and my mom argue sometimes." They were walking toward the playground now. A cold wind swept over them, pushing the empty swings back and forth. No kids were in sight. "She can be a real hardass sometimes."

"I like your mom," Lincoln said.

"Well, so do I, but that doesn't mean she doesn't get on my nerves sometimes." She glanced at him. "She's always on my back about my grades and keeping my room clean and always checking in on me. It gets annoying."

At the swings, she sat in one and he sat in the one next to it.

"That just means she cares about you," he said. "My mom...I don't know...she gets in these strange moods where she's really, like...smothering."

"Yeah?" Ronnie Anne asked. She was scuffing her feet on the mulch.

"Yeah. It gets really uncomfortable."

He thought back to the previous afternoon: For nearly two hours his mother hugged him close to her side. A part of him enjoyed it, but another part didn't. It felt strange, like he was doing something wrong...like she was doing something wrong. He twisted back and forth on the swing as he sorted through his emotions.

"I guess that's what moms are for," Ronnie Anne said. She pushed herself back, then swung forward, her legs leaving the ground. "It's their job to do stuff like that, lame-o."

Lincoln shrugged. "Yeah. You're probably right."

"Of course I'm right," she said. She was pumping her legs and swinging back and forth. The metal frame shook like it was going to collapse. "I'm always right. Now you wanna just sit there or do you wanna see who can go higher?"

Lincoln chuckled. "I bet I can." He backed up, then swung forward.

"I bet you can't," Ronnie Anne teased.

He pumped his legs on the upswing, then leaned slightly back on the downswing. Pretty soon they were both rocketing back and forth. The frame shook even harder, and Lincoln's stomach found its way into his throat. "We're gonna break it," he said.

"Eh. Someone'll fix it."

"I'm more worried about it fixing us."

"If it starts to go, just jump."

Lincoln gulped. On the upswing, it was a long way down.