It started on an ordinary evening, the kind where nothing feels particularly special until life decides to hand you a moment you’ll carry forever.

My wife was deep into her pregnancy, and anyone who has lived through that phase knows how unpredictable cravings can be. They appear out of nowhere, hit with the subtlety of a freight train, and suddenly the entire universe revolves around satisfying them. That night, her world locked onto one very specific target: McDonald’s pickles.

Not the burgers, not the fries—just the pickles. The craving was so strong and so oddly specific that she looked at me with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for medical emergencies. I didn’t question it. When a pregnant woman needs something, you don’t negotiate. You mobilize. So I grabbed my keys and headed out, determined to bring back whatever her heart—and hormones—desired.