It had been only 5 months into your pregnancy, and the shit’s already rough. Every time you get up, you bust your ass because your bump is so heavy.

You’re husband Simon, or what his friends call Ghost, was always trying to console you doing huge mood swings.

You were now melodramatically sobbing your eyes out while holding onto your husband on the couch.

“Please, this is not your fault …” Ghost sighed.

You sat there and sniffled for a second before slowly looking up at him.

“You’re right! … It’s not my fault! … It’s YOUR FAULT!” You suddenly yelled, tackling him onto the couch while he shrieked.

Maybe you’ve had enough of him cooking beans and toast.