An elderly couple, Bert and Edna, are sitting on their porch swing one quiet Sunday evening. They’ve been married for 55 years. The sun is sinking behind the trees, birds are chirping, and they’re sipping lukewarm tea while watching two squirrels in the yard wrestle over a lone Cheeto like it’s a gold medal.

Out of the blue, Edna sighs.

“Bert, let’s talk about our bucket lists.”

Bert raises an eyebrow.
“Bucket lists? Edna, I’m 87. My list is down to ‘wake up tomorrow’ and ‘remember where I left my pants.’”

Edna chuckles. “I’m serious. Before we go, we should each do one thing we’ve always wanted to do.”

Bert thinks for a moment, then says, “Alright. I’ve always wanted to go skydiving.”

Edna’s eyes widen. “Skydiving?! The last time you tied your shoes, you passed out for three minutes!”

Bert shrugs. “If I die mid-air, just make sure I land in the neighbor’s yard. I’ve always wanted to haunt him.”

They laugh, and Edna finally nods.
“Fine. You skydive. I’ll do mine.”

Bert squints at her. “And what’s yours?”

A familiar mischievous sparkle appears in Edna’s eyes—the same one she had back in 1965 when she had ‘accidentally’ launched his bowling trophy out of the car window.

“I want to confess something,” she says softly.

Bert gulps. “Confess what?”

She leans in. “Remember how your recliner leaned left for 20 years?”

“Yeah. I blamed the dog. Poor guy limped for weeks.”

Edna smiles. “It was me. I jammed a spatula under it after you spilled grape soda on my new curtains in ’89.”

Bert gasps. “You monster!”

Edna giggles. “And the remote that only played the Hallmark Channel?”

“You said it was haunted!”

“Nope. I glued a penny in the battery slot. You watched five years of Christmas romance movies—every. single. one.”

Bert stares at her, horrified. “Why would you do that?!”

She sips her tea, calm as ever. “Because revenge is best served with mistletoe and slow-motion snowball fights.”

After a long pause, Bert leans back and grins.
“Well, Edna… I’ve got a confession too. Those Saturday ‘fishing trips’?”

Edna nods. “Yes?”

“Bowling league. I won four trophies.”

Her jaw drops. “I threw one out the window!”

They burst into laughter, their tea forgotten, the squirrels still arguing in the yard.

Weeks later, Bert went skydiving. Edna bought a brand-new recliner—perfectly level. And every Saturday after that, they bowled side by side, not for strikes or spares, but to keep each other honest.

Years later, they passed away peacefully in a car accident and found themselves standing before the Pearly Gates.

St. Peter greeted them with a warm smile.
“Welcome. Here you’ll have a dream kitchen, championship golf courses, and a buffet that never ends. No cost. No calories. No cholesterol.”

Bert blinked. “Wait… no bran muffins? No sugar-free pudding? No baked, skinless, joyless chicken?”

St. Peter laughed. “Nope. Eat whatever you like.”

Bert slowly turned to Edna, eyes wide with realization.

“Woman,” he said, shaking his head, “if it weren’t for your healthy cooking… we could’ve been here ten years ago!”