He was feeling bold that night—not charming-bold, not heroic-bold—just dangerously confident. They were folding laundry in the living room, the TV humming softly, when he looked over with a grin.
“You know,” he said, casual as if dispensing wisdom, “maybe we should start washing your clothes in Slim Fast.”
His wife didn’t flinch.
“Might take a few inches off your backside,” he added, smug.
The room went quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet. The kind that hangs heavy, warning you that you’ve stepped too far.
He didn’t notice. He went to bed that night thinking he’d gotten away with it.
Morning came. He pulled a pair of clean boxers from the drawer—and instantly a cloud of fine powder exploded into the air. He coughed, recoiling.
“What the—?” he sputtered, staring at the underwear as if they had betrayed him personally.
“APRIL!” he yelled down the hallway. “Why is there powder in my boxers?!”
From the bathroom came her voice—light, sweet, almost musical.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “That’s not talcum powder.”
A pause.
“It’s Miracle-Gro.”
The silence this time? Earned.
And April? She went on with her morning as if nothing happened. Because when husbands get too clever… wives get creative.
The second story is quieter, slower—but no less powerful.
A woman sat beside her husband’s hospital bed, day after day, month after month. Machines hummed, air smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee. Time crawled.
Her husband drifted in and out of a coma. Sometimes his eyes fluttered; other days, nothing. But she stayed. Always.
She held his hand, read to him, told him about the weather, the neighbors, the bills—because she believed he could hear her.
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