After finishing a business trip early, I booked a surprise flight home for my husband, Ben, hoping to make up for the lack of “us” time. When I arrived, the house was quiet, and I assumed Ben was in his office. But as I stepped into the backyard, I froze. Ben was frantically shoveling dirt near a large, glossy, black egg. It looked otherworldly, like something from a fantasy film. I almost laughed, thinking it was a prank, but Ben’s panicked expression stopped me. His hands were shaking, and he seemed nervous.
“Ben?” I called. He froze, then turned to me, his voice trembling. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!”
I asked what was going on, but he quickly dismissed it. “It’s nothing.” But something felt wrong. He seemed evasive, insisting he was just doing what needed to be done. My instincts told me there was more to the story. The next day, when he left for work, I couldn’t resist — I had to dig up that mysterious egg and find out what was really going on.
