Linda had just about had it. Her husband Mark was late again—third time this week—off playing golf like he didn’t have a wife waiting at home with cold dinner and hotter temper.

So she decided to teach him a lesson.
She scribbled a dramatic note and left it on the dresser:
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving. Don’t come looking for me.”
Then she crawled under the bed to see his reaction when he found it. 

A few minutes later, she heard the front door open. Footsteps. The fridge door. A drink being poured. Then… silence. He walked into the bedroom, picked up the note—and paused.

She held her breath.

Then he chuckled. CHUCKLED. 

She peeked out and saw him grab his phone.

“Hey babe,” he said, “She finally did it. Packed her bags and everything. I’ll be over in 10. Champagne or wine? Oh—and wear that red thing I like.”
He hung up, whistling, and walked out the door with a skip in his step.

Linda was FURIOUS. 

Her blood boiling, she crawled out from under the bed, ready to scream and throw every golf club he owned out the window.

But then she saw the note.
He had written something under her message:

“Nice try. I can see you under the bed. Also, we’re out of milk.”