The source changes everything.
A woman meets a man. She falls in love. They marry. They go on honeymoon.
They return home, and the husband tells her he would like breakfast every morning at 4am. Not just any breakfast — a very specific breakfast. Eggs sunny-side up, yolks runny but whites set. Bacon crispy but not burnt. Sourdough toast, medium-brown. Sliced avocado with flaky salt. Sautéed mushrooms in butter. Fresh fruit. Freshly squeezed juice, no pulp. Coffee at exactly 82 degrees, in the ceramic mug — not the glass one. Every morning. Without fail. At 4am.
The requirement is not unreasonable in itself. Each item is good. The husband is upright, blameless even. There is nothing wrong with what he asks. It is good.
At first she does it. She sets the alarm. She rises. She cooks. But after a few mornings, she misses the alarm. The bacon is overdone. The eggs break. The avocado is bruised. She forgets the mushrooms. The coffee is too hot. She gets sloppy, exhausted, resentful. The list never shrinks. The standard never bends.
He doesn't help. He cannot help — not because he is cruel, but because that is not what law does. Law states the requirement. It doesn't cook the breakfast. It tells you what is right — and leaves you to produce it from a source that cannot.
Released from the first marriage, she is joined to another man — equally upright, equally blameless. They fall in love. They marry. They go on honeymoon.
They return home, and this husband makes the same righteous claim. Breakfast at 4am. Eggs sunny-side up. Bacon, crispy. Sourdough toast, medium-brown. Avocado with flaky salt. Sautéed mushrooms in butter. Fresh fruit. Juice, no pulp. Coffee at 82 degrees in the ceramic mug. Every morning. God's righteousness has not relaxed.
Her heart sinks. She remembers the first marriage. The exhaustion. The failure. The guilt of never meeting the standard. She sets the alarm for 4am.
The alarm goes off. She drags herself to the kitchen — and he is already there.
The eggs are out. The bacon is sizzling. The avocado is on the board. He hands her a knife — and they make it together. His hands know what hers forgot. Where she fumbles, he steadies. Where she stalls, he supplies. The breakfast comes together — every detail met — but not because she watched from the doorway. Because she was in it with him, and he with her. He doesn't just state the requirement. He is the life in which it gets fulfilled.
The next morning, the same thing. And the next. She is never again alone with a list she cannot meet. God's righteousness did not change. The source did.