HUMOR

Her Husband Went Rogue at the Pumpkin Patch

Didn’t he care about their fall photo shoot?

Someone’s getting excited about fall decor. Photo by Anita Austvika on Unsplash

“Pumpkins!” My three-year-old daughter shrieked in delight.

I smiled and nodded from behind my aviator sunglasses as she turned and ran through the pumpkin patch for the hundredth time. Her giggles rang through the crisp, fall air as mud slathered up her boots.

We’d already attended two pumpkin patch activity days over October but with nothing to do on the Sunday before Halloween and a hyperactive toddler, I decided to waste another thirty dollars on standing around in a shitty field.

“Mommy, let’s get this one,” she called, pointing to a large pumpkin on the ground.

“Hmm, I don’t think so,” I replied as I stepped towards her. “We already have three pumpkins you refuse to touch at home.”

She knelt down and placed one finger on the pumpkin.

“Eww,” she said as she snapped her hand away.

I rolled my eyes and tutted at her ridiculous behavior as I side-stepped a pumpkin.

I’m not touching those fucking things.

“Claire! Claire!”

Please let there be another Claire here.

Scanning the area in front of me, I found only a burly dude in overalls.

He’s definitely a Claire.

“Claire!”

Ugh.

I turned around and spotted a woman waving frantically at me. She wore a large smile painted in red lipstick to match her long fire-colored hair. It was Macy, a classmate from college who currently litters my Instagram feed with bullshit.

Forcing a smile, I waved back as she approached.

“Good to see you. It’s been a while,” she called.

“It has. Good to see you, too,” I replied. “How are you?”

Please respond in eight words or less.

“Great! I heard you got divorced…” She trailed off.

Oh, so that’s included in my introduction now?

I smiled. “Mmm, sort of. This is my daughter,” I replied, pointing to her as she headbutted my thigh.

Macy kneeled to compliment her Cinderella hair clip and pink rain boots as I eyed up my car two fields away.

“My husband and son are over there,” she said as she stood up and pointed to our left.

Oh good, more people I don’t care to know.

I recognized them instantly from Macy’s Instagram photos. Her son, who was about ten years old, stood with his arms folded and a bored look plastered across his face. His father, who had red cheeks and a scowl, pushed a wheelbarrow containing several pumpkins across the uneven ground while muttering to his son.

“They just love this sort of thing,” Macy said as she watched them.

Clearly.

“Ohh,” I nodded.

“Trevor! Come here,” she called to her husband while gesturing with her hands.

He glanced up and let go of the wheelbarrow before dramatically swinging his arms into the air.

“What?” He called back.

He’s loving it.

“Come here!” Macy yelled.

A tense silence hung in the air as they both froze, staring at one another. Their son had made his way to the edge of the field and was about to climb into the brambly hedge. I wanted to join him.

After a few seconds, Macy’s husband let out a loud exhale and stomped through the mud towards us. His boots squelched as they were forced forward.

“This is Claire,” Macy said as he stopped in front of us. “She’s a friend from college.”

Friend is a little strong but ok.

“This is Trevor,” she said, turning to look at me.

“Hello,” I muttered as I tried to find somewhere to rest my gaze.

“Hi,” he grumbled. “Why the fuck do we need so many pumpkins?” He asked, now looking at his wife.

Ah, Trev. It’s for the gram.

“We’re going to decorate the front porch. Stop complaining and get them to the car,” she replied.

I backed up slowly, trying not to fall over pumpkins. My daughter, who was holding onto my coat pocket said,

“Mommy, where are you going?”

Ssssh!

“Why can’t we buy the pumpkins from the store?” Trevor asked, exasperated.

“That’s not the same,” Macy replied.

No, buying pumpkins from a store where they have been placed in a bin is not the same as buying them from a farm where they have been placed in a field.

“Ohh, ok,” Trevor said, smirking. “Well, you get over there and push the damn pumpkins then.”

Oh, shit. Trev’s gone rogue.

He turned and marched over to his son. Macy rolled her eyes and looked at me.

“Men are such babies. I just want it done right.”

“Mmmhmm,” I replied.

“The holidays are so important. We’re creating memories and traditions for our son,” she huffed.

Your son is in a fucking hedge.

“You know what? I should divorce him. He pisses me off! Is this why you got divorced?” She asked.

Yep. He was shit at pumpkin decor so he had to go.

“I’m just going to do it myself,” she carried on. “I’m going to push that wheelbarrow myself. I’m an independent woman!”

I guess the times you were caught plagiarizing in college were your pre-independent woman days?

She turned on her heel and strutted over to the wheelbarrow. Giving her husband a filthy look, she grasped the handles and started fighting with it as it sunk into the mud.

Maybe I should help…. Nah.

“It was good to see you, Macy,” I called as I took my daughter’s hand.

“You too,” she called over her shoulder as I hurdled the fuck out of there.

That evening, after settling my daughter into bed, I opened up Instagram to see what the world’s shittest people had to say. The first post on my feed was a selection of photographs uploaded by Macy. I swiped to find thirteen pictures of her front porch beautifully decorated with dozens of pumpkins and fall-colored ribbons.

Two of the pictures included Macy, Trevor, and their son sitting on the step, hugging and smiling at the camera. The caption read:

“A fantastic day with my boys full of fall love.”

Fucking twat.