Dearest Jorge Rodriquez Fuentes (AKA "My Michael"),
All summer you grumbled about the mysterious whereabouts of your flip flops. Each time we went to the pool as a family, I heard you accuse me of wearing your flip flops and not putting them back in their proper place on your side of the closet. I offered no defense. Truthfully, I, your Amazon-footed wife, do take and wear your flip flops on occasion.
Last night, you came home from a meeting at church and found me alone in the family room. In lieu of a standard, "Hi, Honey, I'm home!" you held up your prodigal flip flops and said, "Look what I found. You know where I found them?"
I must confess that my mind reeled with all the possible places I could have left your flip flops--in your car? at someone else's house? Then you told me, "They were in the font at church." You had left them in the changing area in April when you baptized Mason. I had had nothing to do with the disappearance of your beloved footwear.
I smiled. "I guess you owe your wife a big apology for accusing her all summer of stealing and losing your shoes," I smugly said. "You're right," you conceded.
And then you added, "But you know that you do take my flip flops when you can't find yours and you don't always put them back." What can I say? You're right, Honey, but this time, I didn't and I had to hear about it anyway--for months.
I want you to know, my Beloved Jorge, that I forgive you. If you can forgive me for helping myself to your shoes when the fancy strikes, I can forgive you for pointing the finger of blame at me anytime your shoes are missing.
P.S. I'm glad this photo isn't truly indicative of your feelings for me: