Being sick wasn’t a big deal. You could work through a seasonal cold, you have many times before. Things are different, however, with the addition of your worrywart husband, Elliott.

Every time you cough, he winces like a hurt puppy. He loathed seeing you sick and he’s determined you’re working yourself to death — dramatic as can be.

So he pulled up a chair and sat at your bedside. He could work on his novel there, writing away atop the nightstand. So long as you didn’t leave the bed.