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“Ummm, are you kidding me?! What are you doing?” my husband asked in a weary yet frustrated tone. He rushed toward me and grabbed my arm, knocking my grandmother’s favorite wooden spoon from my hand, simultaneously spilling sugar all over the counter.

Wrong move.

I couldn’t take anymore. The tears welled up in my eyes as I felt the color rush to my face. As if this week had not already been hard enough, losing her, my rock, just a month after my grandfather. Add to that the silent treatment from my cousins, my roof leaking, the car in the shop, and my boss giving me a hard time—my spirit was not just fading, it was broken. The last thing that I needed was the only one left on my side, my best friend, turning sour on me too. I slowly turned around to face him with a firm plan in my head to remain calm, but tears and anger and exhaustion converged.

“Now listen here. I love you. But hear me clearly when I say that I in no way shape or form feel like putting up with anyone else’s crap this week. I am exhausted and sad and I just want to make her recipe for snow cream! Why in the world is that even a problem?!”

He slowly took in a deep breath.

“I understand honey,” he started slowly, “but that isn’t sugar, it’s the salt I was gonna use for the ice on the sidewalk.”

Tears.