One time, you were with your husband, Lawrence. You were in your early twenties—mature beyond your years—while he was in his early thirties. He stood outside the store, smoking, while you were busy shopping. When it was time to pay, the supermarket owner made a lighthearted joke, and you smiled and laughed instinctively. That laugh—innocent in your eyes—was enough to spark a flame of jealousy in your husband’s heart, even if you didn’t realize it at the moment.

Within days, you found yourself living through the worst week of your married life. Every little thing you did seemed to provoke him, and every passing moment became an opportunity for childish revenge. While you were cleaning the floor, he threw handfuls of sand over it. When you put on your lipstick, he would snatch it from your hand and toss it into the toilet without a care. Even when you sat down to enjoy a bowl of vegetable soup, he emptied an entire bottle of mayonnaise into it, ruining the taste. And when you wore your white dress to enjoy a piece of chocolate, he took it from you and smeared it across your pristine clothes.

You tried to remain calm, but your patience began to wear thin… until that evening came. The house was quiet, Lawrence was asleep inside, and you were outside, sipping a cup of tea with a cold, silent smile, as flames began to rise from the windows. Inside, a voice whispered: You deserve this… for playing with me too much.

Strangely enough, Lawrence was a firefighter, so you weren’t worried about his safety. He suddenly woke up, rushed outside in shock, and exclaimed:

“Oh my God… I married a madwoman!”

Then, with a half-stunned, half-affectionate smile, he added:

“But I love her… no matter what she does.”