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.”

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