You bought the Easter egg-shaped plates several seasons ago. Their edges are scalloped, like crenellations of a little happy castle. You discover today that your husband has chipped them. Accidentally, of course. Two of the four. The set is ruined. You lay next to him as you try to fall asleep, his syncopated snores chipping away at your chances of a decent amount of sleep.

You discover this after you both get back from his follow-up heart surgery check-up. You can still hear the doctor tell you that his artery had been 90% blocked—thank god you caught it before it caused a heart attack. After the stints, all he’ll need is exercise—look how the blood flows so smoothly now.

And you know how, if the news had been bad, if you hadn’t caught it in time, you would’ve come home to your quiet house and unleashed shrieks like ice picks, grabbed the pristine plates, and hurled them against the wall, and felt that the shards weren’t jagged enough, weren’t nearly jagged enough.