On a flight to D.C., I was settling into my seat when the woman in front of me answered her phone. I wasn’t listening until she said my wife’s name. “Hi, Ellen,” she began. “Did you send your husband off? … You’ve got plenty of time. He’ll be in pieces.” The words hit me like ice water. I was supposed to be gone until Thursday and suddenly, I was convinced she meant my Ellen. The way she said “in pieces” wasn’t sad or worried; it sounded almost excited.
I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but every phrase this stranger spoke twisted my stomach tighter. I tried to ask her about it later, casually mentioning my wife had the same name. She gave me a polite, closed-lip smile, buried herself in a magazine, and didn’t say another word. By the time we landed, my thoughts had spiraled into full-blown panic. Was Ellen planning to leave me? Was she seeing someone else? I changed my return flight and was home the next morning.
When I walked through the door, chaos hit me kids running around in costume, boxes and ribbons scattered everywhere, glue sticks and paper on the table. Ellen froze when she saw me. “Why are you home?” That tone surprised, maybe even nervous made my heart sink. I told her everything: the call, the name, the “in pieces” comment, my fear that she was leaving. She just stared at me for a moment… then doubled over laughing.
When she caught her breath, she explained. The woman I’d overheard was Cynthia, her college roommate. Ellen had been planning a scavenger hunt for our anniversary. The “pieces” were puzzle clues, each leading to the next location, with the final clue taking me to the restaurant where we’d had our first date. That night, sitting across from her in that same restaurant, I felt foolish — but mostly, I felt grateful. Ellen hadn’t been hiding betrayal; she’d been hiding a surprise to remind me how much she loved me.