I don’t know what time it was when I woke up.
At first, I thought I was dreaming.
Then I felt it again.
The bed was trembling.
Not violently. Not dramatically. But enough to make my heart pound in the darkness.
The city lights filtered faintly through the curtains, casting thin silver lines across the room. I pushed myself up on one elbow, disoriented, trying to make sense of what was happening.
For a split second, my imagination raced far ahead of reality.
Then I looked down.
THE “RESPONSIBLE HUSBAND”
He wasn’t beside me.
He wasn’t panicking either.
He was kneeling on the floor.
Half-asleep.
One hand gripping the edge of the mattress, the other fumbling under the bed frame.
Apparently, when we had thrown ourselves onto it earlier, we hadn’t noticed one leg was slightly uneven. Every time one of us shifted, the frame wobbled faintly against the wooden floor.
And in his exhausted but determined mind, that simply would not do.
Instead of waiting until morning, he had decided—at three in the morning—that he needed to fix it immediately.
The shaking I felt?
Just my brand-new husband trying to stabilize our bed without waking me.
