My grandparents slept in separate beds.
My grandfather spent his retirement betting on horses. By which I mean he was fairly pro and managed to both fill up his day and make some kind of consistent income from his gambling. One day while on vacation I was actually with him as he collected his winnings at the TAB and he must have had a very good weekend as I shit you not they gave him a wad of money like a prop for a gangster movie. I must have been ten years old or something and my eyes just bugged out. He looked at me and said those immortal words…
“Don’t tell your grandmother.”
I never told. I never told anyone until now. Granddad has been gone for eighteen years so I think the statue of limitations has finally run out.
I knew if I told, Grandma would have simply swooped in and dispossessed grandad of the majority of his winnings. He would have simply handed it over too. He would have complained, but there would have been something to spend it on unrelated to his wants. Now before anyone paints my grandmother as a gold digging whore, these were people of modest means. My father lived in a tent in the backyard for several years as a teenager when my great-grandmother took ill and had to move in with my grandparents. So as I said, modest means. Maybe she was a used-copper digging whore. I dunno.
But grandad always had to hide his really good winnings from grandma. Otherwise he would lose.
Now of course, I know he was failing a Fitness Test for almost fifty years. Almost fifty. We had the big party for their forteth incase one of them died before they hit fifty years together. Forty-nine-and-a-half. Nowadays of course I’d tell him to tell grandma to keep her hands out of his pockets unless she was trying to feel his dick. But then grandma was the one supplying the cookies, so maybe I’d not mention it even if I knew what to say.
The takeaway is that if you’re hiding something perfectly fine from your wife for fear of her wrath… you’re living in fear and failing a Fitness Test that never stops.