Letting Maggie work through “her stuff” on her own was becoming an art form for me. When we were first married I kept stepping in, trying to fix things when she got upset, and of course that just made it worse. I’d talk to the married guys at the office when this happened and they all assured me that it was one of the occupational hazards of being married. Most of the advice was pretty much the same: don’t say much unless you’re asked, and let it blow over. Of course, this is totally contrary to how men solve problems, but hey, that’s what makes life interesting, right?

Holding Maggie on the couch and noticing the crying had stopped, I said, “Hey, if you don’t want that cream Danish, can I have it?”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, sniffling and sitting up.

Little did she know I’d already had one down in the bakery, but my ploy to get her moving seemed to work. She walked over to the dining table and sat down in front of the tea and Danish.

“Jim, come over and sit with me. We need to talk,” she said.