“Honey, please, get out of the play maze. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t made for sad husbands.”

“Our son hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you. Now come on, I want to get this thing separated, folded down, and put away so we can clean up a little before bed.”

“Just clean around me. I just want to lie here in the place where my son and I created such fond memories creating different arrangements of the safari-themed cubes and tunnels. You know, in those magic times before he decided he didn’t love me anymore.”

“Oh my gosh, David, so he didn’t want the peas you gave him. People don’t like peas. Your brother doesn’t like peas. Maybe it’s genetic. Besides, he ate the broccoli we offered him.”

“You mean the broccoli you offered him. YOU. Me, I could hand him the finest vegetables in the land and he’d scream like I asked him to chew glass. YOU could hand him a cactus and the kid would gobble it up and probably give you a thorn-ridden grin afterward. Face it, the one good thing to come from that drunken night in Vegas three years ago hates my guts.”

“And you think shoving your adult-sized body into his Playhut Ultimate Safari Maze and lying there in defeat is going to fix it?”

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. But I’d rather hide the twisted look of shame on my face within these durable and soft polyester walls when he finds me dead of a broken heart tomorrow.”

“Sigh. You think maybe some ice cream might fill the awful void you feel in your heart and get you to crawl out of there, honey?”

“Not without chocolate syrup. Whipped cream might help.”

Back to top