I came home early from a business trip, hoping to surprise my husband. Instead, I found him drenched in sweat, buried in the garden — literally — digging a hole beside a strange black egg. When he refused to tell me what was going on, I started looking for answers myself. What I uncovered still makes my pulse race.
The conference in Chicago had dragged on for days, a blur of name tags, stale coffee, and corporate jargon. I hadn’t slept properly in nearly a week. Ben and I had barely spoken lately — him buried in investment banking, me juggling consulting clients across time zones. So when my final meeting ended early, I didn’t think twice.
“You’re skipping the closing ceremony?” my colleague Linda asked as I shut my laptop.
I nodded. “Time to put my marriage ahead of my career, for once.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Regina, sacrificing ambition for love? Must be serious.”
“It is.” I checked the clock. “If I catch the 6 p.m. flight, I’ll be home before sunset.”
“Text me when you land,” she said with a knowing smile. “Surprise visits don’t always go as planned.”
If only she knew how right she was.
By the time I pulled into our driveway, the sun was low in the sky, casting golden shadows across the lawn. The house looked peaceful, warm lights glowing inside — but something felt...off. Too still. Too quiet.
Inside, it was the same. Dishes were piled in the sink — unusual for Ben, who treated tidiness like religion. Mail was scattered across the coffee table. One envelope screamed “URGENT” in bold red letters. A half-drunk mug of coffee sat beside his laptop, the rim ringed with dried liquid.
“Ben?” I called softly. No answer.
Assuming he was in his office, I stepped outside to check on my tomatoes — a small joy I’d missed. But I barely made it to the garden before I froze.
There, in the middle of the plot, stood Ben. His shirt clung to him with sweat, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he frantically dug into the earth like a man possessed.
Beside him sat a massive, glossy black egg — easily two feet tall, smooth and gleaming like obsidian.
He kept glancing at it between shovel loads, muttering under his breath.
“Just a bit deeper… got to bury it all the way…”
I blinked hard, convinced I was hallucinating. But it was real. My husband. Digging a hole for a jet-black, alien-looking egg.
“Ben?” I called, barely above a whisper.
He spun around, shovel clattering in the hole. His face was pale, dirt streaked across his cheek. Hands trembling.
“Regina?! What are you doing here?”
“I came home early to surprise you.” My eyes darted to the egg. “What is that?”
“It’s… nothing,” he stammered, stepping between me and the object. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
“Nothing?” I gestured toward it. “That’s not nothing, Ben. What’s going on?”
He ran a filthy hand through his hair, his eyes flicking toward the street like he expected someone to show up.
“Just go inside, Reggie. I’ll explain later.”
“Later? You’re burying a thing that looks like it dropped from a UFO and want me to wait for an explanation?”
“Please,” he said, voice raw. “I’m handling it.”
“Handling what?”
“I said I’m handling it!” he snapped — louder than I’d ever heard him. I flinched.
“Fine,” I said, turning back toward the house. “Handle it alone. Like everything else lately.”
He reached for me. I pulled away.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Ben didn’t come to bed. Around 3 a.m., I heard the back door creak open. Through the curtains, I watched him pace the garden like a watchman guarding buried treasure.
At dawn, after he left for work, I grabbed a shovel.
I had to see what he’d hidden.
The soil was soft. After twenty minutes, I hit it — the egg. Oddly light, considering its size. Its surface felt more like plastic than shell. With trembling hands, I twisted it — and it came apart. Hollow. Empty. Just layered black plastic inside.
“Regina?” a voice startled me. I turned to see Mr. Chen, our neighbor, watching from over the fence.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Fine. Just gardening,” I lied, clutching the egg behind me.
He nodded, clearly unconvinced, and disappeared. I took the egg to the garage and hid it under a blanket behind the lawn tools.
My thoughts raced. Was this some prank? A breakdown? Something worse?
Trying to calm my nerves, I started the car. The radio blared on.
“…breaking news: authorities have uncovered a counterfeit scheme involving fake antiques — including large, black, egg-shaped containers…”
My blood ran cold. A scam?
That evening, I placed the egg squarely on the kitchen table and waited. When Ben walked in and saw it, his briefcase hit the floor.
“I can explain—” he started.
“How much did you pay for it?” I cut him off.
His face crumpled. “Fifteen thousand.”
I stared.
“I thought it was real. An ancient fertility artifact. A guy at work said it was rare — said it’d triple in value. I thought… if I sold it, we could finally take that Europe trip you’ve always wanted.”
“Our savings, Ben? You used our savings?”
“I wanted to fix things,” he whispered. “Your mom’s hospital bills, the leaking roof. I thought I could fix everything with one smart move.”
“But you didn’t tell me.”
“Because I was ashamed. I got scammed, Reggie. I filed a police report this morning. They said others were hit, too. Young professionals. People under pressure.”
I softened. “I don’t care about the egg. I care that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was a failure.”
“You’re not. But hiding things doesn’t make anything better.”
We sat in silence. The egg still gleamed, a ridiculous monument to poor judgment.
“What should we do with it?” Ben asked.
I looked at it, then smiled faintly. “Let’s plant it. Next to the tomatoes.”
“As a warning?”
“As a reminder. That what really needs to grow is our trust.”
Ben chuckled, the tension melting. “I love you, even when I’m an idiot.”
“Lucky for you, I love idiots,” I said, pulling him close. “Now let’s figure out how to get that money back — together.”
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