One evening Nasreddin Hodja returned home tired and out of sorts, longing for something to cheer him up, only to find that his wife wore the usual scowl on her face.
- What's wrong now? Hodja cried. It is my reward for toiling from morning till evening for your sake that you meet me with a face like that?
- Oh! Our neighbor's little boy died she said. I went there to take part in the praying. I've just come back.
- I remember the same sour look on your face, Hodja retorted, when you came back from weddings, too.