Ralph was in the middle of his life, slowly approaching the world of retirees—a world that promised an escape from the soul-crushing grind of office work, replacing it with lazy afternoons in front of the TV or the occasional getaway trip.

His wife, Elena, was a tall, blue-eyed woman with a long nose and an insatiable knack for nagging. Fashion was never her strong suit, and with her stern appearance, she ruled as a school principal—the kind no student ever wanted to deal with. Even their own kids sometimes felt the same way. Yet, Ralph was the only person who, on rare occasions, could get her to bite her tongue.

Ralph had two sons who were just as tall as him, carrying their mother’s sharp tongue and endless complaints. His daughter, on the other hand, inherited his face but got Elena’s height, poor fashion sense, and nagging—though, mercifully, a little less than her brothers. However, she had her mother’s razor-sharp wit, which made up for it.

Every morning, their modest home erupted into a storm of arguments, which, without fail, ended with Ralph being blamed for everything. Even the stray cat that lived on their rooftop, constantly having kittens and never taking a break, was somehow his fault.

It was a Monday evening, one of those oddly peaceful days in town, where chaos felt normal. But inside Ralph’s house, the weekly storm had already begun—just another session of "Ralph is Useless."

Elena, her sharp blue eyes ablaze like a wolf about to pounce, was in full rant mode, her voice cutting through the air. She stood in the kitchen, holding a steel ladle, wearing tight pants and a plain shirt stained with tomato sauce. Her voice was as commanding as the shouts she used to terrify students at school.

"You’ve always been useless! I still don’t know what I ever saw in you!" she barked, stirring the soup with unnecessary force.

Her voice was nothing new to Ralph. At this point, it was like the ticking of an old wall clock—just background noise. Without bothering to raise his voice, he mumbled to himself, "Well, obviously, no one else would’ve married you."

But Elena had the ears of a trained investigator—years of catching whispering students had sharpened her instincts. Her head snapped toward Ralph, eyes narrowing.

Stolen novel; please report.

"What did you just say?! Are you mumbling under your breath again?!"

Ralph had always been patient, but his irritation was beginning to stir. It was the kind of anger that only surfaced once a month when he’d finally had enough and gave Elena a piece of his mind. But not tonight. He took a deep breath, forced a smile, and said just loud enough for her to hear, "No, you’re right, dear."

Then, as if to mark his small victory, he grabbed his weekly indulgence—a can of soda. The satisfying pssst of the carbonation made him grin. He was about to take his first refreshing sip when—

Elena, a master interrogator with a background in psychology, didn’t miss a beat. She could break parents down in school meetings, making them question their entire approach to raising children. And now, she had Ralph in her sights.

"Don’t even think about turning on that TV!" she snapped. "That’s all you ever do—run away from conversations! No awareness, no ambition, and on top of that, completely useless! Instead of finding a job after retirement, you’re sitting here drinking soda, wasting your life on that stupid novel of yours! A book so bad, even the publisher regrets printing those hundred copies!"

Ralph’s grip on the soda can tightened, the aluminum crumpling slightly. His blood boiled, and his pulse pounded in his ears. For a second, he was ready to unleash hell. But he knew how this would end—he’d lose.

He couldn’t take it anymore. The nagging, the yelling, the way she loomed over the TV like some terrifying guardian of misery. He needed to get out.

Without a word, he stood up. Elena was already predicting another fight when he returned—like a weather forecaster warning of an incoming storm. But Ralph didn’t care. He headed for the door.

Then, a thought struck him—if he left now, his handwritten manuscript would be left behind, defenseless against Elena’s wrath. He knew exactly what she’d do.

Without hesitation, he grabbed the stack of papers, clutching them tightly as he stormed out of the house. If his novel was going to be destroyed, it would be by his own hands… not hers.