NewsI Returned Early to Surprise My Husband Only to Find Him Burying a Large Black Egg in Our Garden – Its Mystery Brought Us Closer

“You’re really skipping the closing ceremony?” my colleague Linda asked, watching me pack my laptop. “The VP’s giving the keynote. Could be good for your promotion.”

I zipped my bag with finality. “For once, my marriage comes first. Ben and I haven’t had a real conversation in weeks.”

“Regina, putting love before career?” she smiled. “Must be serious.”

“Go get your man,” Linda winked. “But text me when you land. These surprise returns don’t always go as planned.”

If only she knew how right she’d be.

The setting sun cast long shadows across our front lawn as I wearily pulled into the driveway after a long, exhausting flight. My hands trembled slightly as I killed the engine. The house stood quiet, warm lights glowing behind drawn curtains.

Something felt off the moment I stepped inside. The house was eerily quiet. Through the kitchen window, I could see dirty dishes in the sink — so unlike my usually meticulous husband.

“Ben?” I called softly, letting myself in. No answer.

The house felt different somehow. Mail was scattered across the coffee table, including several official-looking envelopes marked “URGENT.”

A half-empty cup of coffee with a lipstick-like ring of dried coffee around its rim sat beside Ben’s laptop.

But as I approached the garden doors and stepped into the backyard, I FROZE.

Ben stood in the middle of our vegetable garden, between the tomato plants he’d been so proud of just weeks ago. His shirt was stained dark with sweat and his sleeves rolled up as he dug into the earth like a man possessed.

But it wasn’t his frantic movements that made my blood run cold. It was the LARGE, OBSIDIAN-BLACK EGG sitting beside him.

The thing was enormous, at least two feet tall, its surface gleaming like polished glass under the evening light. As I watched, frozen, Ben kept glancing at it between shovel loads, his movements growing more desperate.

My hand flew to my mouth. Was this really happening? I blinked hard, convinced I was hallucinating from travel exhaustion. But the scene remained unchanged — my husband, digging what looked like a grave for some alien artifact in our backyard.

“Ben?” I called out softly, careful not to startle him.

He whirled around, shovel clattering against something metal in the hole. His face, usually so composed, was pale with panic. A streak of dirt ran across his cheek, and I noticed his hands were shaking.

“REGINA?” He shrieked, his voice trembling and loud. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

“It’s NOTHING.” His words came too fast, too sharp. He moved to stand between me and the egg. “Reggie, just go inside, honey. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Nothing? Ben, I don’t think that’s ‘NOTHING.’ What is it? What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later. Please go inside.”

“Later?” I gestured at the hole he’d been digging. “You’re burying something that looks like it came from a sci-fi movie in our garden at sunset, and you want me to wait for an explanation?”

“Please, Regina. Trust me on this. I’m just doing what needs to be done. I’m handling it.”

“Handling what exactly?” My voice rose. “Because from where I’m standing, my husband is either having some kind of breakdown or—”

“I said I’m handling it!” The force in his voice made me step back. In three years of marriage, I’d never heard him shout.

“Fine.” I turned toward the house, tears stinging my eyes. “Handle it yourself. Just like you’ve been handling everything else lately.”

“Don’t. Just… don’t.”

Sleep evaded me that night. Ben never came to bed, and the couch creaked periodically with his restless movements. Around 3 a.m., I heard the back door open and close. Through the bedroom window, I watched him check on the place where he’d buried the mysterious egg, pacing around it like a sentry.

What’s wrong with him? What is he hiding from me?

Morning came too quickly. I waited until Ben’s car disappeared down the street before grabbing the garden shovel. My hands trembled as I approached the freshly turned earth. I HAD TO DIG UP THAT THING!

It took 20 minutes of digging before I hit something solid. The egg was surprisingly light when I unearthed it, though my arms shook with the effort.

Up close, its surface felt wrong — not like shell, but like… plastic? I twisted it slightly, and to my shock, it separated in the middle like some oversized Easter egg.

Empty. Completely empty except for more layers of black plastic.

“Regina?” Someone called out from behind.

I jumped, nearly dropping the egg. Our elderly neighbor, Mr. Chen, peered over the fence, his eyes fixed on the object in my hands.

“I saw someone in your garden late last night,” he said slowly. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I said quickly, hiding the egg behind me. “Just… gardening.”

His expression said he didn’t believe me, but he nodded politely and disappeared. I waited until I heard his door close before examining the egg more closely. The craftsmanship was impressive, but it was definitely artificial. What had Ben gotten himself into?

My mind raced through possibilities. This wasn’t just about a buried object. It was about Ben’s bizarre behavior and the way he was terrified when he saw me home early.

Something bigger was happening. Something that made my usually steady-handed husband dig like a madman in our backyard.

With trembling fingers, I wrapped the egg in an old blanket and tucked it behind the lawn equipment in our garage. It was out of sight, but not out of mind.

“Think, Regina, think,” I muttered, pacing the concrete floor. “Maybe this was some elaborate joke? A midlife crisis? Or something far more sinister?”

I dragged myself to the car, hoping work might distract me from this madness.

The radio clicked on automatically as I started the engine. The news anchor’s voice cut through my fog of exhaustion, making my blood run cold:

“Breaking news: Local authorities have uncovered a massive counterfeit operation targeting antique collectors. The scammers sold fake antiques, including unique black egg-shaped plastic containers, to unsuspecting buyers. Total losses are estimated in the millions…”

My coffee cup slipped from my fingers, splashing across the dashboard. The pieces started falling into place. That evening, I placed the egg on our kitchen table and waited. When Ben walked in, his briefcase hit the floor with a thud.

“Reggie, I-I can explain—”

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

He sank into a chair, his shoulders slumped. “Fifteen thousand.”

“Jesus, Ben.”

He pressed his palms against his eyes. “I used our savings. I was going to sell it and take you on that European trip you’ve always wanted.”

“The trip we’ve been saving for? That we’ve talked about for years?” My voice quavered. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I know, I know.” He slumped forward. “When I realized it was fake, I couldn’t face you. Couldn’t admit I’d thrown away our money on a plastic egg.”

“We’ll figure this out,” I said, moving around the table to take his hand. “But no more secrets, okay? We’re supposed to be partners.”

“I filed a police report this morning,” Ben added. “They said we’re not the only ones. Apparently, this guy’s been targeting young professionals and antique collectors, playing on their financial stress.”

I squeezed his fingers. “I don’t need expensive trips or ancient artifacts. I just need my husband to talk to me, even when things get hard. Especially when things get hard.”

I studied it for a moment. “Maybe we’ll plant it in the garden for real. Right next to those tomatoes you’ve been trying to grow.”

“As a reminder of what not to do?” A ghost of a smile crossed his face.

“As a reminder that the only thing we need to grow is our trust in each other.” I leaned against him. “And maybe as a conversation piece. ‘Hey, want to hear about the time my husband buried a fake artifact in our backyard?!’”

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

Here’s another story: I saved a little girl from danger and when I escorted her to her grandmother’s mansion, my heart stopped cold. On the wall hung an old photo of a man who looked just like me.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.