I hadn’t slept in days. The Chicago business conference had dragged on, and when my last meeting finished early, I decided to surprise Ben by coming home. It had been weeks since we’d had a real conversation, and I was tired of feeling like strangers.

As I arrived home, the house was eerily quiet. The dirty dishes in the sink and scattered mail were a stark contrast to Ben’s usual meticulousness. Assuming he was working in his office, I decided to check the garden to unwind.

But what I saw froze me.

Ben, covered in dirt and sweat, was digging a hole in the vegetable garden. Beside him lay a large, obsidian-black egg, gleaming like polished glass. My heart raced as he muttered, “Has to be deep enough to bury this thing.”

“Ben?” I called, stepping closer.

He jumped, eyes wide with panic. “Regina? What are you doing here?”

I stared at the egg. “What is that? Why are you burying it?”

“It’s nothing,” Ben insisted, moving to block my view. “Please, just go inside.”

But I couldn’t let it go. “No. This isn’t nothing. What’s going on?”

Ben seemed on edge, glancing around as though expecting someone. “I’m handling it,” he said, his voice shaking.

“Handling what? Why are you burying that thing?”

He snapped, louder than I’d ever heard him, “I said I’m handling it!” His words hit like a slap. I turned away, hurt and confused. “Fine. Handle it yourself.”

That night, Ben didn’t come to bed. I heard him pacing outside, checking on the egg he’d buried, his restless movements unnerving me further.

In the morning, I couldn’t stand it. I grabbed a shovel and went straight to the garden, digging up the egg. It was surprisingly light. When I opened it, expecting something exotic, I found it was hollow, made of black plastic.

“Regina?” a voice called from behind. Mr. Chen, our elderly neighbor, was peering over the fence, his eyes fixed on the egg.

“Everything okay?” he asked, but I quickly hid the egg behind me and assured him everything was fine.

Later, I turned on the car radio, hoping to distract myself, when the news anchor’s voice sent chills through me: “Authorities have uncovered a counterfeit operation targeting antique collectors. Fake antique eggs, like those found in Chicago, have cost buyers millions.”

My heart stopped. I raced home, set the egg on the kitchen table, and waited. When Ben walked in, he froze. “Reggie, I can explain.”

“Explain what?” I cut him off. “How much did you pay for this?”

He slumped into a chair. “Fifteen thousand.”

“Fifteen thousand?” I gasped.

Ben’s voice cracked as he explained. “A guy at work said this egg was a rare artifact that would triple in value. I thought I could sell it, take you on that European trip we’ve always talked about.”

“But you never told me. Why didn’t you just ask?” I felt the weight of the lies pressing down on me.

Ben’s face was crumpled with regret. “I didn’t want you to think I was an idiot. Things have been so tight lately with your mom’s medical bills, the house repairs…”

I shook my head. “You didn’t need to fix everything. You just needed to talk to me.”

He nodded, his eyes red. “I filed a report. This guy’s been targeting professionals like us.”

I squeezed his hand. “We’ll figure it out together, okay? No more secrets.”

Ben gave a weak smile. “So, what do we do with the egg?”

I thought for a moment. “Maybe we plant it in the garden for real. Next to those tomatoes you’ve been working on.”

Ben’s eyes softened. “As a reminder?”

“Yeah,” I smiled, “A reminder to grow trust, not fake artifacts.”

His laugh was shaky but real. “I love you, Reggie. Even when I’m an idiot.”

I kissed his forehead. “Lucky for you, I love idiots.”