My husband stood in front of the mirror, fixing his shirt like he was heading out on a date—not to work.

I smiled.

I stepped onto the porch, wearing my most innocent expression.

There he was—bent over beside the car, clutching his stomach like it was about to betray him at any second.

He stumbled toward the house.

“What did you give me?!” he shouted. “I’m not going to make it to the bathroom!”
I placed a hand on my chest, pretending concern.