Paul wakes up on Christmas morning feeling like a discarded ornament—hungover, disoriented, and questioning all his life choices. On his nightstand sits a glass of water, an aspirin, and a single red rose, like some bizarre apology from a romantic sitcom. His clothes are folded neatly, the room spotless, and there’s a note from his wife promising breakfast and a homemade dinner. The kind of gesture that says, “I love you… but also, you’re lucky I didn’t call the police.”

Curious and still fuzzy-headed, Paul asks his son what on earth went down the night before. The kid shrugs like he’s used to explaining Dad’s disasters. “You came home drunk, crashed into the door, and smashed the coffee table,” he deadpans. Paul blinks, trying to connect the dots between the wreckage and the rose-tinted peace treaty on his nightstand.

“But if I trashed the place, why does everything look so perfect now?” Paul wonders aloud, half hoping for a magic elf to appear and clean up his mess. His son grins mischievously, “Because when Mom tried to help, you yelled, ‘Leave me alone! I’m married!’” Apparently, even in chaos, loyalty is still a winning move. Or at least that’s what Paul tells himself.

So, there it is: Paul’s Christmas Eve hangover story, complete with destruction, denial, and a bizarre declaration of marital devotion in the heat of a drunken meltdown. Who needs angels when you have a wife who cleans up your mess and a kid who delivers the brutal truth? If heaven had a VIP list, Paul’s probably on it—right next to those who know how to say “I’m married” with impeccable timing.