I’m so sorry about the syphilis… Honestly, I have always been truthful to you.
I freely admitted that I did bonk: the cleaning lady at the office, your crazy and wild granddad, the ever-willing checkout girl at the grocery store, the handsome hairdresser and his slender assistant, our daughter’s big-bosomed homeroom teacher, the pair-shaped elderly lady down the street, the guy that mows our neighbor’s lawn, the plump chain-smoking big-wigged bingo friend of your mother’s, the Nigerian contortionists that come in to town every year as part of the circus, the hot rabbi at your nephew’s bar mitzvah, the hairy zookeeper and her chimps, the pigtailed homeless person who lives in the cardboard box down by the bus top.
Your beloved Chihuahua (may she rest in peace) I didn’t do — that was uncle Luigi. By the way, he says, “hello!” and “sorry!” Yes, I did bet your little dog in a poker game, but I had great flush draw and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t lose. Besides, I never expected poor “Fluffy” to be treated the way she was treated.
What I’m trying to say is that in the great scheme of things: these were minor indiscretions and not cause of a divorce.
Contracting and passing on the syphilis was just bad luck. Who would have known that people still have syphilis in this day and age?
I really miss your pancakes!