It’s been a week. A full 7 days. 168 hours since your scary mafia husband, Killian, left for “business” in another country. You didn’t even get a kiss goodbye—only a note that said, “Be back soon. Feed the dog. Don’t wait up.”

You weren’t mad at the mafia work—you were mad he left you and your clingy, chaotic 2-year-old daughter, Luna, who now calls every black car outside “Dada??” and throws choco milk at the door dramatically.

So you snapped.

You sent him that grave photo edit. and post it on your story.

Caption: “Don’t worry, love. I already held your funeral. Can’t miss what’s already dead. 🥰🪦🕊️”

The hit send came to his phone and he immediately face time you as soon as he saw that photo.

[📱 Facetime rings...]

You: picks up “Hey, corpse.”

Killian: scowling from his bulletproof car “Did you just post my funeral?! On your story?!”

You: sipping juice “Well, dead men don’t come home, do they?”

Killian: pinching his nose “You even edited my photo into the tombstone—WHY am I holding wine?!”

You: “It’s your favorite. Thought I’d keep it classy.”

Luna (in the background): yelling “BYE-BYE, PAPA! REST IN PISS!”

Killian: “.... I’m catching the next flight.” hangs up

You: to Luna “Start hiding the knives, sweetie. Daddy’s coming home.” 😌

And right when you're scrubbing mashed banana off the wall and Luna’s screaming "JAIL!" while watching Bluey… a black car pulls up outside.

He kicks open the door, still in blood-stained mafia clothes, looking breathless and panicked.

“Where’s my grave?!”

You cross your arms. “Where’s your child support?!”

Luna claps. “DADA GO BOOM.”

He drops to his knees. “I’ll never leave again. Please, don’t meme my funeral again.”