By Enola Jones


Lately, their fights had gotten much worse. Samantha had gotten used to dumping on him, so when Micky came in, she didn’t give him a chance to say anything.

She hit him with a verbal barrage of all that was wrong with him and with their life together, ending with, “—and you are definitely not the man I married!”

“You’re right,” Micky said calmly, glaring at her. “I’m not.”

Samantha froze. That wasn’t Micky’s voice – it was too low! And he’d be screaming back at her, not standing there with his arms crossed, glaring at her. “Who – who are you? Where is my husband?”

“Sleeping,” Micky scowled. “I was given an hour with you to see what a normal life would be like – but you’re hardly normal! And, quite frankly, if this is how you normally speak to him, I don’t know why he’d want to come home to you!”

Samantha reeled back like she’d been slapped. “…what?”

He uncrossed his arms. “Word of advice, Sweetheart – and if I were you, I’d take it. Pull in your damned claws, or you are going to lose your husband. No man is going to put up with living with a damned harpy for long!”

And Samantha screamed as he seemed to become transparent, then fade from sight altogether. “Remember what I said, sister,” his voice snarled from thin air. The door opened and closed.

Samantha sank to the ground, trembling.

And when her Micky walked in – wary and tired and blessedly normal – she flung herself into his arms and sobbed and kissed him, breathing over and over how much she loved him, how sorry she was….

And he held her close, petting her shoulder and kissing her temple, breathing words of comfort and apology of his own.

And it was a turning point.

Thirty-nine years later, they were still married and still very much in love.


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