It was a quiet Thursday morning when she walked into the kitchen, still in her robe, hair loosely tied, expecting nothing more than her usual cup of coffee and a glance through the newspaper. But instead, taped to the refrigerator door, was a neatly folded note written in her husband’s familiar handwriting.
Curious, she opened it—and began to read.
My dear wife,
You will surely understand that I have certain needs that you, being 57 years old, can no longer satisfy.
I am very happy with you and I value you as a good wife.
Therefore, after reading this letter, I hope that you will not wrongfully interpret the fact that I will be spending the evening with my 19-year-old secretary at the Comfort Inn Hotel.
Please don’t be upset – I shall be home before midnight.
For a long moment, she just stared at the paper, her eyes blinking as if trying to clear away the words. A mixture of disbelief, amusement, and a slow-burning anger bubbled up inside her. He’d written it so casually—almost like a business memo. The tone was polite, even formal, as if he expected her to nod in understanding and wave him off with a smile.
She sighed, folded the note, and placed it neatly on the counter. Then she made her coffee, sat down, and thought.
This wasn’t the first time her husband’s ego had gotten the better of him. Over the years, he’d grown increasingly self-satisfied, convinced that a shiny car, a corner office, and a younger assistant somehow made him irresistible. But writing her a letter about it? That was a new level of arrogance.
So she decided to respond in kind.
That afternoon, she went about her day as usual—taught her math classes at the local college, corrected papers, smiled at her students—but a spark of mischief danced behind her calm expression. By evening, while her husband was likely checking into the Comfort Inn, she was penning her own letter.
She wrote it slowly, with deliberate precision, every word measured like an equation that she knew would balance perfectly.
When he came home that night, well past midnight, slightly disheveled and trying to act casual, the house was dark except for one small lamp over the dining table. There, beside his plate, was a note waiting for him.
He unfolded it, expecting perhaps an apology or a confrontation. Instead, he found this:
My dear husband,
I received your letter and thank you for your honesty about me being 57 years old.
I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that you are also 57 years old.
As you know, I am a math teacher at our local college. I would like to inform you that while you read this, I will be at the Hotel Fiesta with Michael, one of my students, who is also the assistant tennis coach.
He is young, virile, and—like your secretary—19 years old.
As a successful businessman with an excellent understanding of mathematics, I trust you will appreciate that we are in the same situation, although with one small difference:
19 goes into 57 more times than 57 goes into 19.
Therefore, I will not be home until sometime tomorrow.
He stood there in stunned silence, reading the words again and again as the realization sank in. His wife—the calm, intelligent woman he’d underestimated—had just outsmarted him with precision, wit, and perfect mathematical logic.
The house was quiet except for the ticking of the kitchen clock. His dinner was cold, untouched. Her car was gone.
And somewhere across town, she was probably sipping wine at the Hotel Fiesta, smiling to herself—content in knowing that sometimes, poetic justice doesn’t need to be loud. It just needs to be clever.
That night, the man learned two valuable lessons: never underestimate a math teacher, and never, ever try to calculate love like a business deal.