“I pooped myself,” my wife said sheepishly.

“Really?” I giggled, laying in the driveway next to my motorcycle and a pile of tools.

“It’s not funny!” She furrowed her brow in warning.

“All right. All right.”

“It happened so fast. I thought I was done, but after I left the bathroom I suddenly needed to go again and, well, I didn’t make it.”

Elizabeth’s confession was no surprise. Pregnant women have endless problems regarding the bathroom and my wife was no different. During the third trimester as the growing baby stole space from her bladder, Elizabeth would waddle to the bathroom every twenty minutes only to emerge unrelieved because she managed only a squirt. It was an unrelenting cycle for her of discomfort and disappointment. She generally kept a sense of humor, but as time passed and the pregnancy took its toll she started losing control of her functions.

“It’s just a little crap, honey,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But it’s so embarrassing.”

“We all have accidents.”

“Pooping myself?”

“It’s nothing a shower and washing machine won’t fix.”

“Easy for you to say. You didn’t just soil your pants.”

I put down my wrench and looked my wife in the eyes. “It’s time I share something with you. Something that happened during my trip to Manchester.”

The English city had been ground zero for the most foul, most heinous incident ever to beset me as a grown man. It was a dark memory that sat in my closet sharing martinis with cackling skeletons.

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