On a golden Sunday evening, eighty-seven-year-old Bert and Edna swayed on their porch swing, sipping lukewarm tea as squirrels battled over a stray Cheeto. After fifty-five years of marriage, their silence was comfortable—until Edna dropped a bombshell.

“Let’s do our bucket lists,” she said.

Bert snorted. “Mine’s short: Wake up remembering where I put my pants.” But Edna insisted. Bert’s dream? Skydiving. “If I faint mid-air,” he deadpanned, “just let me crash in the neighbor’s yard. I’ve always wanted to haunt him.”

Edna’s eyes sparkled like they had in ’65 when she’d “accidentally” tossed his bowling trophy out the car window. “My turn,” she said. “Remember your recliner that leaned left for twenty years?” Bert had blamed the dog. Edna grinned. “I jammed a spatula under it after you ruined my curtains in ’89.”

Bert gasped. “Monster!”

“And your ‘haunted’ remote that only played Hallmark movies?” A penny in the battery compartment. Five years of Christmas romances—revenge served with slow-motion snowball fights.

Bert retaliated with his own confession: Those decade-long “fishing trips”? Bowling tournaments. Four trophies hid behind the water heater.

Edna gaped. “So I threw out a fake trophy?”

They laughed until their sides ached. The next week, Edna bought a new recliner. Bert went skydiving (and survived). And every Saturday? They bowled together—keeping each other honest.