Four married guys go fishing

Four married men went on a fishing trip, but instead of just swapping fishing stories, they had an unexpected confession session about the sacrifices they made to get away. Each man had to negotiate with his wife, promising various tasks in exchange for the weekend off. The first man revealed he had to commit to painting every room in the house, while the second promised to build a new pool deck. The third man upped the ante by agreeing to remodel the entire kitchen. As they shared their struggles, they began to wonder if the trip was worth the hefty “honey-do” lists.

However, the fourth man shocked them all with his simple strategy. He casually said, “I just set my alarm for 5:30 a.m., nudged my wife, and asked, ‘Fishing or s*x?’ She said, ‘Wear sunscreen.’” His approach was so straightforward that it left the others in fits of laughter. This story resonated with many because it highlighted how different people handle marriage negotiations, with some working hard to earn freedom while others keep it simple. The tale reminds us that sometimes, the best approach is just understanding your partner and letting them make the choice.

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Four months ago, I gave birth to my son. My husband never got to meet him because cancer took him when I was five months pregnant. My life is a cycle of midnight feedings, diapers, pumping, crying, and three hours of sleep. To keep us afloat, I clean an office downtown before the workday starts. Four hours a day. Just enough for rent and diapers. While I’m gone, my late husband’s mom watches the baby. One icy morning after my shift, on my way home, I heard it—a cry. Not a cat, not a puppy. A baby. Thin, desperate. I followed it to the bench near the bus stop. There, in a flimsy blanket, was a newborn. Alone. Face red from screaming. My hands shook as I scooped him up. He was freezing, starving. I ran home. My MIL gasped when she saw me. I explained between breaths. I breastfed him beside my son, tears dripping onto his tiny head. But we knew we had to call the police. Social services took him, and I sent along diapers, wipes, and bottles of pumped milk. The next day, my phone rang. A deep male voice: “Is this Miranda? You found the baby?” “Yes.” “You need to meet me today at 4 p.m. Write the address down.” When I saw the address, my blood ran cold. It was MY office building. Why would they be calling me? Was I in trouble for feeding the baby? Would they fire me for taking him home instead of calling immediately? At 4 p.m. sharp, a guard escorted me upstairs. The office smelled of leather and power. Behind a massive desk sat a silver-haired man. He didn’t introduce himself. He just said: “Sit.” ⬇️

The morning I found the baby split my life clean in two. I was trudging home after another pre-dawn shift, mind fixed on warming my hands around…

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