“Julian?”
He startled violently, spinning around. The shovel slipped from his hands, clattering against the metal edge of the garden bed. “Nora?!
What are you— you’re supposed to be in Chicago!”
“I was,” I said slowly, stepping closer. “The last meeting ended early. I thought I’d surprise you.”
He moved instinctively, planting himself between me and the egg.
“You weren’t supposed to be here yet.”
I blinked at him. “Clearly. Want to tell me what in the world that thing is?”
“It’s nothing,” he said too quickly.
“Just— don’t worry about it. Go inside, please.”
“Nothing?” I crossed my arms. “Julian, you’re out here burying a massive shiny… whatever-that-is in our garden at sunset.
That’s not exactly nothing.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, smearing dirt across his forehead. His eyes flicked nervously toward the fence as though afraid someone else might be watching. “Please, Nora.
Just trust me. I’m handling it.”
“Handling what?” I asked, my patience thinning. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve lost your mind or started hiding evidence.”
His voice sharpened.
“I said I’m handling it!”
The shout stunned us both. I stared at him at the man I’d built a life with, now covered in dirt and panic. “I don’t even know who you are right now,” I whispered.
I turned and went back inside before he could answer. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard him moving downstairs, pacing, the couch creaking every time he shifted.
Around three in the morning, I caught the faint creak of the back door. I got up quietly and peeked through the window. There he was, standing in the moonlight, arms crossed, watching the garden like he was guarding it.
I knew then that whatever he was hiding, I was going to find out. When Julian left for work the next morning, I waited until his car disappeared down the street. Then I grabbed the spare shovel and went outside.
The soil was freshly packed, soft, and damp. I started digging. My hands trembled, part nerves, part anger, as I pressed the blade into the earth again and again.
After about twenty minutes, the shovel hit something solid. I dug faster until the black surface emerged the egg. Up close, it didn’t even look like a natural object.
It wasn’t rough or porous like stone; it felt synthetic, almost like molded plastic. I brushed the dirt away and noticed a faint seam running down the middle. I twisted gently, and to my surprise, it split open like a giant Easter egg.
Inside — nothing. Just hollow space. I sat back on my heels, staring at it in confusion.
What the hell was this? “Morning, Mrs. Benson,” a voice called from over the fence.
I jumped, heart racing. It was our elderly neighbor, Mr. Yamato, leaning on his rake.
“I saw someone out here late last night,” he said. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah,” I stammered, hastily hiding the egg behind me. “Just… replanting some things.”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press.
“Be careful with that soil — lots of clay underneath.” Then he shuffled back toward his yard. As soon as he was gone, I dragged the empty egg into the garage, wrapped it in an old tarp, and shoved it behind the lawnmower. Then I sat on the concrete floor, staring at it like it might start explaining itself.
Why would Julian bury something like this? Why was he so terrified I’d see it? The questions followed me all the way to the office.
I could barely focus on my emails. At a stoplight, I turned on the radio for distraction. “—breaking news this morning,” the announcer said.
“Authorities have uncovered a massive fraud ring involving fake historical artifacts sold to private collectors across several states. Investigators report that the scammers used black, egg-shaped plastic containers — falsely marketed as rare Eastern relics. Victims paid thousands of dollars, sometimes more…”
I froze.
No. No, it couldn’t be. But I knew.
I knew instantly. Julian’s “egg” wasn’t a mystery object. It was a scam.
That night, I placed the black egg right in the middle of our kitchen table and waited. When Julian walked through the door, he froze mid-step. His briefcase hit the floor with a dull thud.
“Nora…”
“How much?” I asked quietly. He sank into a chair, his face ashen. “Fifteen thousand.”
I felt my chest tighten.
“You spent fifteen thousand dollars on that?”
“I thought it was real,” he said, voice cracking. “A guy at work introduced me to this collector — said it was an ancient artifact from the Tang Dynasty. Supposedly a fertility relic, incredibly rare.
He said it would triple in value within a year.”
“You didn’t think to do a single search before dropping fifteen grand?” I asked, my voice climbing. He looked miserable. “I wanted to surprise you.
I thought… if I could flip it for a profit, we could finally take that Europe trip. The one we keep putting off.”
“The one we’ve been saving for, Julian? You used that money?”
He nodded, shame coloring his face.
“I thought I could make things better. Your mom’s treatments, the HVAC, the bills piling up — I wanted to fix it for once instead of watching you juggle everything.”
My anger faltered. He looked so defeated, so painfully earnest.
“So you buried it?” I asked softly. “I panicked,” he admitted. “When the news broke about the scam, I realized I’d been duped.
I didn’t want you to find out — I thought if I hid it, maybe I could sort things out before you knew. But then you came home early…”
“Julian,” I sighed, sitting beside him. “You can’t protect me from disappointment by lying.
That’s not how marriage works.”
He nodded, rubbing his face. “I know. I filed a police report this morning.
Turns out a few people from the firm got caught in it, too. They think they can track the sellers.”
I leaned back, exhaling. “Well, at least we’re not the only ones who fell for a fake egg.”
He let out a strangled laugh.
“Can’t believe that sentence makes sense in my life right now.”
I smiled despite myself. “You know… we could always plant it for real. Make it part of the garden.
A monument to terrible decisions.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Or a reminder that trust matters more than treasure.”
We sat there in silence for a while — not the heavy kind from the night before, but a comfortable one. “I love you,” he said finally, taking my hand.
“Even when I’m a total idiot.”
“Lucky for you,” I said, squeezing back, “I’ve got a thing for idiots who learn their lessons.”
A week later, the police confirmed Julian’s claim. The scammers had been caught. He wouldn’t get all the money back, but some restitution would come through.
It wasn’t much, but it was something. We decided to keep the egg — not as a secret, but as a story. We scrubbed off the dirt and placed it under the old oak tree beside the garden.
When our friends came over for barbecues, they’d point at it curiously. “What’s that?” they’d ask. Julian and I would share a look.
“That,” he’d say with a grin, “is a reminder that some things look valuable until you dig them up.”
And every time he said it, I’d glance at him — the man who’d once tried to fix everything with a fake artifact — and think about how close we’d come to breaking apart over fifteen thousand dollars and a foolish secret. Now, whenever we passed that strange, shiny relic, I didn’t feel anger anymore. Just perspective.
Marriage, I realized, wasn’t about grand gestures or perfect plans. It was about staying when things got messy, forgiving stupid mistakes, and digging through the dirt together until you find something real underneath. And, maybe, about learning when to stop buying things that look like treasure but aren’t.
Because sometimes the real treasure is the person who’s willing to admit they messed up — and still pick up the shovel beside you.
