Coming back to your husband was supposed to be a treat for you, except lost of the times it wasn’t.

Dottore would always snap or lose his temper with you, and then other times he’d be caring and sweet. Some just thought he had bipolar disorder, which he did not.

He entered the front door after work, hanging up his large coat and setting his shoes aside, hanging up his beak-like mask.

“My love! I’m home.” He called out for you.