After days at a business conference in Chicago, the sleepless nights and endless presentations had left me worn out. I couldn’t wait to see my husband, Ben, and decided to skip the final session to surprise him. Three years into marriage, and recently, we’d felt like strangers passing each other, with his investment banking schedule and my consulting work. When my last meeting wrapped early, I hurried to catch the next flight home.
As I pulled into our driveway, the sun had set, casting long shadows across the lawn. The house stood still, a comforting glow emanating from within. But something felt off. Through the kitchen window, I glimpsed dirty dishes piled in the sink—odd, since Ben was usually so meticulous. I called his name, but the house was silent. My gaze drifted to the backyard, and that’s when I froze.
There he was, standing in our garden, drenched in sweat and frantically digging into the earth. Beside him, an enormous black egg—a bizarre object, nearly two feet tall, with a glossy, obsidian surface. He muttered to himself as he dug, “Just a little deeper… It has to be hidden.” My heart pounded as I approached.
“Ben?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Startled, he spun around, his face pale. “Regina? What… what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I replied, my eyes glued to the mysterious object. “What is that?”
“It’s… it’s nothing,” he stammered, trying to shield the egg from my view. “Please, go inside, Reggie. Trust me on this.”
I could hardly believe it. Here was my husband, acting like he was in some sci-fi thriller. He wouldn’t explain, so I retreated, but I couldn’t let it go. That night, while Ben paced anxiously in the garden, I lay awake, my mind racing.
The next morning, as soon as Ben left, I grabbed a shovel and unearthed the egg myself. It felt strange—more like plastic than a real shell. With a twist, it opened. Inside was… nothing. Just more plastic layers. I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.
Lost in thought, I nearly jumped out of my skin when our neighbor, Mr. Chen, leaned over the fence. “Saw Ben out here late last night. Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I mumbled, hastily hiding the egg. “Just… gardening.”
Later that day, as I drove to work, the radio buzzed with breaking news: “Local authorities have uncovered a counterfeit ring scamming collectors with fake artifacts, including large black egg-shaped objects.”
My heart sank. When Ben got home, I placed the egg on the kitchen table. He dropped his briefcase, his face full of guilt. “Regina, I… I can explain.”
“How much, Ben?”
“Fifteen thousand,” he admitted, shame darkening his face. “I thought it would be an investment. Something valuable that I could surprise you with. I didn’t know it was fake.”
I sighed, shaking my head. “All you had to do was talk to me.”
We sat together, processing the absurdity of it all. Ben had been trying to “fix” our financial strain with a high-stakes gamble, too embarrassed to share his troubles. He’d filed a police report, and thankfully, we weren’t the only victims.
As for the egg? We buried it in the garden—a symbol of trust and the strange, sometimes ridiculous lengths love drives us to.
