On my way home from a three-day work trip, I spotted a sign outside my wife’s diner that nearly made me drive off the road. It read, “Nick, I know what you did. Don’t bother coming home. — Kate.” My heart raced as I sped home, racking my brain to figure out what I could’ve done.

When I walked into the kitchen, Kate was sitting with arms crossed and a cold look in her eyes. She pushed a note and a bouquet of roses toward me. “So, who’s the lucky girl, Nick?”

I stared at the note, confused. “I didn’t send these!” I protested, but she wasn’t listening. Then I noticed the address on the receipt. It wasn’t even ours—it was for 241 Maple, not 243.

“Kate, these flowers were for someone else!” I pointed out. Her face flushed as she checked the receipt.

After confirming the mistake with the florist, Kate was mortified. “Nick, I’m so sorry.”

“You put up a sign at the diner,” I sighed, exhausted. “Everyone saw it.”

She apologized again, replacing the sign with: It’s Always a Good Time for Milkshakes, Now With Extra Apology Sprinkles!

We met at the diner that night, and over fried chicken, we talked. She apologized a million times, but the sting of her mistrust lingered. We weren’t done yet, but we had a lot of healing to do.