The silence in our house was heavy. It was the kind of silence that makes guests uncomfortable and neighbors gossip. My best friend, Dave, texted me on day two: “Dude, are you guys okay? I came by to drop off the drill and it was like a tomb in there. Do you need a place to crash?”
My friends thought we were fighting. They assumed I had forgotten an anniversary or that she had found my secret stash of comic books. They whispered about “marital discord” and “irreconcilable differences.”
The truth was far more petty.
My wife and I didn’t speak for three days, not out of anger, but out of sheer, stubborn survival instinct. It started on Friday night with a simple challenge. The baby had just eaten. We both knew what was coming.
“We had a bet to see who could go the longest without talking,” I whispered, locking eyes with her.
The stakes were astronomical. The loser didn’t just have to do the dishes or walk the dog. The loser had to avoid being the one to get up and change the diaper.
For seventy-two hours, we lived like mimes. We communicated in aggressive nods and interpretative dance. If I wanted the salt, I pointed. If she wanted the remote, she stared at it until I felt the psychic pressure. We were locked in a cold war of attrition, neither willing to break the seal and face the noxious doom waiting in the nursery.
I thought I had her. She’s a talker. She loves to narrate her day. I saw her struggling on Sunday afternoon, her lips twitching as she watched a reality show she was dying to critique. I was smug. I was confident.
Then, betrayal came from within.
A rogue dust mote. A tickle in the nose. I tried to suppress it. I pinched my nose. I held my breath until I turned purple. But biology is a cruel mistress.
Achoo!
The sound shattered the three-day peace. I froze, horrified.
She didn’t miss a beat. She didn’t look up from her magazine.
“‘Bless you,’” she said, with the sweet, victorious tone of a champion. “‘Now go wipe the baby.’“.
I lost. I walked the lonely mile to the nursery, defeated by my own sinuses, realizing that in the game of marital chicken, my wife is the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world.
