My son said these were for his BB gun. My husband agreed without even getting off the couch.

I went into my twenty-two-year-old son’s room to collect the mugs. On his desk were these little silver cartridges, lined up beside his laptop. “For my BB gun,” he said. I took one downstairs and asked his dad. “Yep. Gas cartridges.” He barely looked away from the television. That was reassuring for about three seconds, until I realized I had received two identical answers from people who regularly ask me where we keep the towels. I found the packaging. “Then why does the box say whipped cream?” My husband paused the television. Apparently we had reached the part of the investigation where looking at the evidence was necessary. Upstairs, my son had suddenly become very interested in putting his laundry away. Specifically, putting it in front of his wardrobe. I asked him to open it. Inside was a whipped-cream dispenser, a milk frother, three bottles of syrup and a stack of plastic cups. Last month, I said we weren’t buying any more coffee equipment. We have a perfectly good coffee machine. Nobody needs a second coffee machine within walking distance of the first coffee machine. He had apparently interpreted this as a zoning restriction. “You’re making coffee in your bedroom?” “Only iced coffee.” I waited for him to explain why that helped. Then I noticed a little handwritten menu. He wasn’t just making it. He was selling it to his brother. Using our milk. Our ice. Presumably the mugs I had originally come upstairs to recover. His dad appeared in the doorway. “Let’s not make a huge thing of it.” That was an interesting contribution from someone who, five minutes earlier, believed we were discussing sporting equipment. I looked at my son. “How much does your dad owe you?” “Nothing.” My husband nodded. “He prepaid.” I had gone upstairs for six mugs and discovered my husband was a founding member of a coffee shop I wasn’t allowed to know about. submitted by /u/d00dl35 [link] [comments]