In only a few short hours, we are embarking on a weeklong trip to a cozy inn located in the northern part of Colorado. It will be about a four-hour drive to get there, followed by a week of breakfast buffets, a Jacuzzi, nature walks, and a lake with trout that are basically jumping out of the water. It’s the perfect combination of getting away from urban (or in our case, suburban) life and still enjoying hot and cold running water and Cable TV. I can’t wait.

Well, except for the four hours in a car with my husband. Who probably won’t stop talking about his stupid UChicago shirt.

I drop a handful of socks into my luggage and walk over to Noah’s dresser. I’ve got two full dressers and a closet filled with clothes, whereas Noah just has the one dresser and a few dress shirts in the closet. When we were first together, he used to tease me about how much clothing I had compared with him. He still teases me about it, but now the jabs are considerably less playful.

If you buy one more shirt, we’re going to have to buy a separate house just for your clothing, Claire.

It’s not so much. My friend Lindsay literally has an entire room just for her clothing. But she’s not married. So she gets to do whatever she wants without another person criticizing her every move.

I sift through the drawer, pushing through the range of gray and black T-shirts. Noah has never been a fan of bright colors. He tends to stick with the grayscale. One time he bought a green shirt. That was his midlife crisis.

After only a few seconds, I see the flash of maroon shoved into one corner of the drawer. I pull out the shirt and see the word UChicago etched across the front in faded lettering. Noah has had this T-shirt as long as I’ve known him. It’s his favorite shirt.

For a moment, I’m seized with the urge to stuff this shirt into the bottom of the garbage bin without telling him. He’ll go crazy looking for it. And really, this shirt needs to be retired. There’s a hole forming at the collar and the hem is all frayed.

Then again, I’ve got enough secrets from my husband right now. And I don’t want to miss out on the pure satisfaction of informing him that the shirt was in the drawer all along.

“Mommy?”

My seven-year-old daughter, Emma, is standing at the doorway to our bedroom, watching me contemplate what to do with her father’s favorite T-shirt. Even though we’ve already had breakfast, she’s still wearing her Frozen pajamas, which are royal blue with little snowflakes all over them. I guiltily shove the T-shirt back into the drawer and turn to smile at Emma. She doesn’t smile back.