I texted my husband with a question in the morning, and he didn’t mention the text later when I called, so I was chilly when we spoke that night. Over the course of the day I had parlayed the slight oversight into a whole theology on marriage: “If I can’t have the hotline to my own husband, then, well, what kind of world is this!”
The man didn’t know what was hitting him as we debriefed over the day’s events, with me doing a classic stereotyped performance of the sulking wife. He asked, “Is something wrong?” I answered, curtly, “Nothing.”
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