Page 68 of Dear Debbie

I look at the question posted on the screen.

Dear Debbie,

Oh, I do so love to knit. There’s just something so peaceful about sitting in the rocking chair on my porch with my yarn and needles, a cool glass of iced tea at my side. My daughter loves the little gifts I make for my grandbabies, and all my friends appreciate the scarves I gift them for holidays. But my husband just doesn’t see the charm in it.

Last winter I knitted him a lovely blue scarf that was as soft and warm as could be, but that man didn’t even wear it once! Not even to humor me! But he’ll wear department store scarves like they’re made of gold. I’m not one to kick up a fuss, but it would warm my heart to see him happily wearing one of my homemade gifts.

Any suggestions to convince my husband that my homemade scarf, knitted with love, is as good—if not better—than the one he bought in the store?

Knitting Nancy

Dear Knitting Nancy,

The next time the two of you are going out together on a chilly day, why not suggest that he wear your scarf? If he’s reluctant, you can get it out and wrap it around his neck yourself. If you wrap it tightly enough, he probably won’t be able to take it off. And if you wrap it even tighter, he won’t be able to complain anymore. Feel free to wrap that scarf as tightly around his neck as needed!

Debbie

My mouth drops open. I admit, I don’t read Debbie’s column every single week, but I’m fairly sure I’ve never seen anything like this printed in it. Usually her advice involves getting out stains or suggestions for a movie night. It’s pretty tame.

It doesn’t usually involve strangulation.

Clearly, this was never published. This is a draft she wrote and saved on her hard drive, except I’m not sure why. Did she respond to Knitting Nancy personally? Are the two of them currently swapping advice on asphyxiation?

“I read most of the files,” Lexi tells me. “Like eighty percent of them are instructions on how to kill your husband.” She pauses. “Did you do something to piss Mom off?”

Shit.

“No,” I lie.

“Dad, do you think Mom has lost her mind?” Izzy asks in a small voice.

“I…I don’t know.” At the crestfallen look on her face, I quickly add, “I’m sure she’s fine. She’s just going through a hard time.”

I click on the files one by one. It doesn’t get better. It gets worse, in fact. Debbie has come up with a lot of creative ways to advise women to kill their husbands.

I reach for my phone. I check the Findly app again, but it still has no updates since she left the house. I click on her name in my contacts and wait as the phone rings. And rings.

“Is she answering?” Izzy asks me.

“Does it sound like I’m talking to someone?” Immediately, I regret snapping. This isn’t Izzy’s fault. “No, she’s not picking up.”

Her face falls.

The call goes to voicemail, and I leave a message: “Debbie? It’s me. It’s Cooper.” Why do I think she won’t know who “me” is? But right now, I truly don’t know what’s going through her head. “I really need to talk to you. I found… Anyway, please call me as soon as you get this. Please.” I take a deep breath. “And don’t…don’t do anything stupid.”

I hang up, and both the girls are hovering behind me at the computer, staring at me with alarm. I probably should have played it cooler for the phone message and reserved the panic for texts. But I can’t help it. What the hell is Debbie doing? Where is she?

“Maybe you should see where Mom went earlier?” Lexi suggests.

I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

“Like, in the Findly app she made,” she says. “Check where she went yesterday and the day before.”

“Wait, I thought you could only see her current location?”

“Oh, Dad,” Lexi sighs. “You are such a boomer.”

What? I don’t have time to figure out her Gen Z insult. I thrust my phone in her direction. “Show me what you mean.”