On Monday morning, a postman is walking the neighborhood on his usual route. The sun is out, birds are chirping, and his mailbag is slightly heavier than usual—thanks to an unsolicited pizza coupon booklet thicker than the town’s phone book. As he approaches one of the homes, he notices something odd: both of the family’s cars are in the driveway.
This catches his attention because Bob, the homeowner, usually leaves for work earlier than the rooster wakes up. Normally, the only signs of life at Bob’s house in the morning are the lawn sprinklers and that one squirrel that aggressively guards the mailbox.
Before the postman can think too much about it, Bob bursts through the front door in his bathrobe, hair looking like he wrestled a tornado, and slippers barely hanging onto his feet. He waves frantically.
“Hey, Jerry! The postman! You won’t believe what just happened!”
Jerry, used to strange stories (including the woman who once mailed herself a pineapple as a prank), pauses mid-step. “Morning, Bob. What’s the emergency? Your Amazon package bite back?”
Bob shakes his head. “Worse. Much worse. It’s my wife. She thinks I’m having an affair!”
Jerry blinks. “Because both cars are in the driveway?”
“No! Because I made breakfast!”
“…Come again?”
Bob huffs. “I woke up early today to surprise her. Made pancakes, eggs, even tried to make one of those fancy coffee drinks with the foam art. You know, like a leaf or a heart. Mine looked like a confused potato, but it’s the effort that counts.”
Jerry nods slowly, unsure where this is going but already invested.
“Anyway,” Bob continues, “she comes downstairs, sees the food, and gasps like she just caught me hiding a giraffe in the kitchen.”
Jerry raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“She says—and I quote—‘What did you do, Bob? You only cook when you’ve messed up!’”
Bob throws his arms up dramatically. “I was just trying to be nice! And apparently being nice is the number one red flag in our marriage!”
Jerry chuckles. “Well, to be fair, you did once buy her flowers after accidentally backing the car into her sister’s garage.”
Bob scowls. “That was one time. And technically, I only tapped the garage. It still opens—just at a diagonal.”
Just then, Bob’s wife appears at the door, arms crossed, eyebrow arched. “Bob, are you telling our mailman about our breakfast drama again?”
Bob turns to her and says, “Yes! Because Jerry understands! He knows that a man can cook pancakes without having a secret girlfriend named ‘Cinnamon’!”
Jerry coughs, trying not to laugh. “For the record, I didn’t even know pancakes could cause this much trouble.”
She shakes her head. “Next time just make toast. Toast is safe. Toast says, ‘I like you.’ Pancakes say, ‘I’m hiding something.’”
Bob looks at Jerry. “See what I live with? I’m guilty until proven crispy!”
Jerry, seeing that his role as neighborhood postman has once again turned into part-time therapist, smiles and hands Bob the mail. “Here. Maybe there’s a coupon for a marriage counselor in there.”
Bob sighs. “Or divorce papers. Hard to tell these days.”
As Jerry walks away chuckling, he thinks to himself: Mondays may be tough, but at least they come with entertainment, confused pancakes, and couples who keep him laughing.
