“I have a confession to make,” said my husband this morning as I was drinking coffee at the breakfast table. He was behind me. A dozen thoughts whirled through my mind. He had been by himself last night, as I was out at a mom’s event for drinks and dinner with my son and friends. Is it something dire, worthy of a movie or novel? Another woman? An addiction?
Note to others – don’t start out with that phrase unless it’s something big. I was glad I was already sitting down. Without turning around to look at him, I asked him nonchalantly what it was.
Deep breath from behind. “I broke the multicolored coffee mug.”
Big smile from me. “That’s OK, it’s just a mug.” Relief. It’s a mug! Big deal. So it’s the fourth one in as many months. He has a lot on his mind and is not paying attention to his mug-handling skills. The first one he broke was my fanciful fish mug, a gift from a co-worker 15 or more years ago. I didn’t give him much grief, just mourned it and the memories it had carried for me silently for a moment and assured him it was just a mug. The second one was HIS mug with a corporate logo. Who cares about THAT one? The third one was a pretty floral mug with a lid that was perfect for steeping tea – the lid helped keep the water hot while the tea steeped. Again, not a big deal, we have others.
This last one was one I had found at a garage sale, a fun jazzy design, but certainly nothing I valued. I think the accumulated breakage is wearing him down. Men like to be faultless and always in the right, you know.
“I wasn’t going to tell you, I know you liked that mug. I was going to let you discover it for yourself. But I felt guilty.”
If this is the worst my love has to confess, I’m the luckiest woman in the world. How about you – worst or best confessions?