I stepped out of the truck and slammed the door. Fury overwhelmed me. I was angry - a fire-breathing, lava churning, smoke billowing - kind of anger. I didn’t even look back at my husband as I stomped off to the front door of our small home.

Whatever the fight was that day, I don’t remember. We were still newlyweds trying to sort out this game of marriage. Some days were grand and full of adventure. Other days left us stunned at our own selfishness and tempers. Who knew that marriage would bring so many hidden emotions to the surface?

I reached the front door located by the large window and yanked it open, vaguely aware that my husband was not following me. Whatever! I thought, not like I wanted to talk to him anyways! I slammed the door shut.

My husband stood quietly outside. Then in a calm voice he said, “Bring me the machete.”

What?! What kind of nonsense is this? Asking for a machete in the middle of an argument. How mad is he? I stared at him stupidly not comprehending the reason for his request.

Again he asked, “Bring me the machete, please.” The urgency in his voice moved me to obey. I found the machete. “Bring it to the side door.” Another odd request as we never used that door, but now I sensed that something was amiss so I hurried to meet him at the side door. Once outside I followed him as he backtracked around the corner to the front door. The door I had slammed only moments ago.

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