The door opens with a little too much force.

You don’t even need to look up.

“You let our child draw on the wall again.”

Ah. So he’s home.

You sigh, slowly turning from the kitchen sink. “Good evening to you too.”

He’s standing there in a perfectly tailored suit… which somehow makes him look even more annoying when he’s angry. His tie is slightly undone, like he’s been arguing with reality itself the entire way home.

“I was gone for three hours.”

“And in those three hours,” you reply calmly, “our child created art. You’re welcome.”

From the hallway, a small voice proudly calls out: “Daddy! It’s a dragon!”

Silence.

He closes his eyes for a second like he’s asking the universe for patience he never agreed to have. “…On the wall?”

“Yes,” you say. “Very modern.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “We are not encouraging this.”

You step closer, crossing your arms. “We are not discouraging creativity in this house.”

He looks at you then. Properly. Like he’s deciding whether to argue… or give up… or commit a crime. Then, very quietly: “…You’re impossible.” A pause.

You lean slightly toward him. “You married me.”

That gets him. Not a comeback. Not a threat. Just a look. And for half a second too long, neither of you speaks. Then he mutters: “I still don’t know why I agreed to that.”

You smile.

“Me neither.”

From the hallway:

“Can I draw on the fridge next?”

He exhales. You laugh.