Laughter as Proof, No Fortune Can Settle It

At a college reunion, someone egged the married men on to share "the fastest way to make up with your wife." My husband swirled his glass and smiled. "Don't bother reasoning with her. Just send money. If five hundred isn't enough, make it five thousand two. She'll cool off on her own." Every man at the table laughed along. But the female coworker sitting beside him tossed out a line without thinking. "Last time, after your wife's surgery, when you came out of town with me, didn't you smooth it over with thirteen grand?" The private room went quiet. That surgery, I had told only my husband about. He reached over and rested a hand on my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze with his thumb. "She's had too much to drink, she's talking nonsense. It's a reunion, don't make everyone uncomfortable." Someone jumped in to cover for him. "Don't take it to heart, ma'am. Keith swears us to secrecy every time he tells us. Deep down he's still looking out for you." So my illness, my crying, my silence every time I accepted one of his transfers had long since become a running joke at their dinner table. My phone buzzed. My husband had sent me five thousand two hundred, with a note. [Just a joke, don't be a killjoy.] I hit return. At eleven that night, that reunion clip shot to the top of the local trending list. The headline read: [Doesn't matter if a husband cheats. Five thousand two is enough to shut his wife up.]