I don’t remember the context fully, but one thing stuck out.
First of all, we’re eating pudding in bed, which you shouldn’t do if you’re an adult.
You’re not the woman I married. Perhaps you’ve been replaced with some sort of animate husk, barely possessed of imagination or soul. I will undertake a mission straightaway to discover where it all went wrong and set things right. Sanity and good sense will be returned, and we shall once again eat pudding wherever and whenever we damn well please. Because we’re adults.