Ethel had just about had it with her husband Frank disappearing for hours on end to play golf, only to roll in late with grass stains and excuses.

One afternoon, after yet another no-show for dinner, she decided to teach him a lesson. She scribbled a note, left it on the dresser, and hid under the bed.

The note read: “I’ve had enough, Frank. I’m leaving. Don’t try to find me.”

A short while later, she heard the front door open. Frank whistled as he made his way into the bedroom, spotted the note, and read it without saying a word. Then he chuckled, grabbed a pen, scribbled something on the paper, and picked up the phone.

“Hey sweetheart,” he said. “It finally happened—Ethel’s gone. I’ll be right over. Put on that silky blue number I love. You know the one. I’m bringing wine.”

Ethel nearly burst through the floorboards. Her heart was pounding. Her jaw hit the hardwood. She stayed frozen under the bed until the door closed again and Frank’s car pulled away. Then, shaking with fury, she slid out, grabbed the note, and read his addition:

“I can see your feet. We’re out of bread. Back in 10.”