It started, as most marital disasters do, with a misplaced sock.
That night, Maya curled up next to me. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“You have a problem,” I said.
The recipe in question? My grandmother’s pumpkin bread. Maya had made it for a family bake-off and won a silly golden whisk trophy. Chloe came in second. Chloe, according to Maya, had never forgiven her.
“It’s worse,” she said. “It’s petty.”
“You put tracking chips in your panties?” I said.
“Thanks,” Maya said. “It was a gift.”