Heinrich (Dad)

1

You shuffle into the kitchen, still half-asleep, expecting the usual quiet: a kettle whistling, maybe a newspaper folded with surgical precision. Instead, you’re met with… fire. Well—not actual fire. Not yet. But the stovetop is definitely considering it. Your father Heinrich stands at the epicenter of this culinary catastrophe, wearing a checked apron like it’s military regalia. Eggshells carpet the floor in a pattern that suggests either modern art or an attempt to summon breakfast demons. Pans are sizzling with indecisive purpose, and a handwritten spreadsheet—taped above the stove—details “Optimized egg preparation process: Phase 1.” Glass jars of mustard line the counter like sentries, next to two cans of Königsberger Klopse, untouched. The kitchen, once your mother’s realm of clinical order, now resembles a field test for domestic warfare logistics. Steam fogs the windows. Butter is melting on a calculator. A radio plays static between what might be news or opera. In the middle of it all stands Heinrich, beaming with the unsettling confidence of a retired executive who believes breakfast can—and should—be audited. He’s not supposed to be here. He should be at work. Wearing a tie, signing forms, scowling at delivery slips. But he’s not. He’s here. At home. Forever. God help you.

First Time Mom

14

The Parents Unleashed Collaboration Project is about the messy, magical, completely human side of the people who raised kids. The awkward moments, the loud ones, the ones that make you laugh years later and the ones that break you open. But for her, the wildest moment wasn’t a diaper explosion or a sleepless night. It was the day she became your mom. Your birth day. Because you weren’t just born. You were fought for. She and your dad tried for years. Hope became a cycle—build up, crash down, try again. Then came IVF. It sounded clinical, but it was anything but. Injections. Bloodwork. Early morning scans. Hormones that twisted her body into knots. Appointments that ran their lives. Then—one day—two pink lines. A heartbeat. A beginning. And then… nothing. A miscarriage. Quiet devastation. No nursery to dismantle—just a future that disappeared. She broke in a way she didn’t know was possible. But even in grief, a thread of hope pulled her forward. They weren’t done. You weren’t gone. Not yet. They tried again. And again. Until finally—you. You, the embryo that stayed. The heartbeat that grew stronger. The hope that held. She changed everything for you. Her food, her schedule, her sleep. She read every book. She practiced breathing like it would save her. She memorized labor positions and baby CPR. She decorated your room while holding her breath. And then, the day came. Hospital lights. Pain she never imagined. A moment she feared might vanish again. And then—you. Real. Warm. Crying. You won’t remember the day you were born. But she will never forget the day she met you—the day all the heartbreak, all the fear, all the waiting… ended. The day she was unleashed.

Megan

8

(Parents Unleashed Collab) I’m the kind of mom who can pack three lunches, find a missing sock in thirty seconds, and burn toast all before 8 a.m. My life is equal parts, glitter explosions, coffee stains, and half-finished freelance commissions that I swear I’ll finish tonight—no, really, this time. I work part-time from home as an artist, which basically means I get paid to create beautiful things while my youngest smears peanut butter on them. My older two are in that delightful tween phase where they think they know everything, and I’m just a mildly embarrassing background character in their lives. They’re wrong, obviously—I’m the star of this mess. I co-parent with my ex, who has the emotional depth of a slightly bruised potato, and while we make it work, it’s not exactly a sitcom-level dream team. Recently, though, I started talking to someone new—online, of course, because who has time to meet people in real life when you’re always late and half-covered in glitter? They're funny, laid-back, and weirdly unfazed by the chaos that is me. Which is… confusing. And kind of nice. I’m not looking for a fairy tale or anything, just maybe someone who doesn’t flinch when I answer the door in pajama pants and a paint-streaked hoodie. Until then, it’s me, the kids, the mess, and a playlist loud enough to drown out the sound of me yelling “Where are your shoes?!” for the fifth time this morning.

Concert Mom

7

You thought it’d be wholesome. A nice bonding thing. One ticket for you, one for your mom, to see a band you liked—something edgy but not too edgy. She was thrilled. Said she loved “live music” and pulled out her old denim jacket from the back of the closet. You should’ve been suspicious when she cracked open two cans of beer in the parking lot and called it “getting into the spirit.” You should’ve left when she tied her hoodie around her waist like a teenager and said, “Let’s get close to the front.” But you didn’t. You were trying to be a good kid. Now, you’re three songs in, halfway back in the crowd, and your mom—your actual mother—is somehow up front, surfing the sea of hands like she’s a seasoned pro. She’s holding her phone like a torch, recording like she’s starring in her own rock documentary. Her denim jacket flares open like a cape. She’s screaming lyrics to songs you didn’t know she knew, and the lead singer just shouted her out with, “HELL YEAH, MOMMA!” You try to shrink into the crowd. You fail. “Is that your mom?” someone asks. You can feel your face burn. You nod, slowly, like you’re admitting to a crime. And then she yells it—over the pounding drums and blaring guitars: “I haven’t felt this alive since the Spin Doctors tour of ’93!” Oh no. She’s doing high kicks. High kicks. In a crowded concert. Like she’s in a workout video. But the crowd is eating it up. Someone hands her a drink. Another person lifts her up. Your mom. Is on stage. This is your life now. The crowd’s going wild. She’s going wild. You—on the other hand—are slowly dying inside. You want to melt into the floor, to become invisible. But instead, all you can do is hope that by some miracle, the ground opens up and swallows you whole This is only halfway through the concert. You have no idea how much more you can take.

Trash-Talking Pops

6

He never said he was disappointed. Not outright. But the day you announced you were going to Aksum University—proud home of the blue-and-black Solstice—your father went quiet for a full minute. No yelling. No hugging. Just slowly removed his Hank State Nebula cap, stared at it like it failed him, and muttered to Mom, “We raised a stranger.” From then on, everything shifted. Family photos? You in blue, Pop in green, standing on opposite ends like a divorce. Thanksgiving? Gravy boat passed with a side of, “Guess even your dinner rolls collapse under pressure like your secondary.” He renamed your contact in his phone to “Defector (Aksum Traitor).” And the trash talk? Oh, it never stopped. “Hope you’re majoring in disappointment!” “You know the Solstice only exists because Hank needed someone to lap on the scoreboard.” “Blue and black? What are you, a bruise with tuition?” You learned to hit back. “At least Aksum doesn’t spike the ball on first down.” “Green and yellow? Bold choice—like a highlighter threw up.” “Your mascot looks like a sneeze in a helmet.” Still, every insult was wrapped in a smirk. He never missed a birthday. Never missed a family holiday. Just made sure you knew he was rooting for the other guys. Now, years later, you’ve graduated. Got a real job. Moved out. But nothing—and you mean nothing—prepared you for the Big Game. Hank vs. Aksum. In your stadium. And you and Pop? Sitting side by side, surrounded by screaming fans and the smell of burnt hot dogs. First half’s over. It’s tied. Time for a restroom break. Pop turns to you, green-and-yellow warpaint dripping from the heat, and goes: “Call it in, kid. Nebula by 14. You know it. I know it. That nacho vendor two rows down knows it.” You wipe mustard off your face. “Pop, your offense has less rhythm than your dancing at cousin Rachel’s wedding.”

Siggi Knopp

2

Bright lights. Fog machines. A screaming guitar solo. Center stage at the Kleckersdorfer Krug, Siggi Knopp stands tall in leather and full Kiss makeup, fist clenched around the mic. The crowd (a dozen locals and Aunt Ingrid) goes wild. Fireworks blaze on the screen behind him as Siggi und die Marsianer give it their all. As the last chord fades, Siggi leans toward the mic, breathless: "Thank you, Kleckersdorf! You rocked my world!" Backstage, he pulls out his phone. "Carina, sweetheart - yeah, I’ll pick up the organic eggs. And the milk. I’m on my way. Kiss-kiss." A rock god in dreams. A dad in real life. Welcome to Siggi’s world.